by Joan Smith
Loretta stepped over the sleeping dog and snapped off the TV. Honey lumbered to her feet, whined, and trotted towards the kitchen.
‘In a minute,’ said Loretta, interpreting this unsubtle signal that the dog wanted to be fed. ‘Let me put this stuff in the fridge and then I’ll give you something.’
She picked up the plastic carrier bag which contained mineral water, orange juice, milk and bread from a nearby deli and carried it into the kitchen, smiling to herself as she realised she had begun to talk to Honey as though the animal were human. She fed the dog and returned to the living-room where she took a hanger from the big cupboard and hung up a shirt she’d bought in Bloomingdale’s sale, noticing as she did so that the message light was flashing on the answering machine. There were four calls, one for Toni and the rest for Loretta: John Tracey had left the address of a restaurant opposite Carnegie Hall where he’d booked a table for dinner that night; Kelly Sibon greeted Loretta enthusiastically, raved about the proposal for her new book, and invited her to a small drinks party at her flat the next evening; and Carole Coryat left a vague, anxious message full of silences and hesitations — exactly like a student apologising for the late delivery of an essay.
‘I thought you’d be home by now,’ she finished, unaware that Loretta had felt so much better by the time she escaped from the Café Noir that she’d revived her original plan of doing some shopping. She had headed down Madison Avenue and across to Lexington in search of Bloomingdale’s, relieved that on this occasion at least, unlike her earlier walk down Fifth Avenue, she had no impression at all of being followed or under surveillance.
‘I just wanted to make sure you have my home number,’ Carole was saying, ‘and to say call me any time. I mean, if you’re worried or ... I never go to bed early so it doesn’t matter how late...’
Loretta already had Carole’s home number in her notebook and as the machine rewound she took down Honey’s lead. The dog bounded out of the kitchen, leaving her dinner half-eaten, and Loretta immediately felt guilty for not coming back to walk her sooner; the poor animal must be desperate. She allowed Honey to drag her up and down Riverside Park for 15 minutes, opening the front door of the flat when she got back to the sound of the phone ringing.
‘Hallo,’ she said breathlessly, dropping the lead just inside the door as she dived for the receiver.
‘Loretta, is that you? This is Michael.’
She was quite unprepared, had almost forgotten about him in fact.
‘Loretta? Are you there?’
‘Yes.’ She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.
‘Loretta, I’m worried that I may have offended you yesterday. I hope you didn’t think — I wouldn’t like you to get the wrong idea. Have you talked to Toni?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you tell her about me? About our little talk last night?’
Loretta hesitated, the advice from the telephone directory inhibiting her: what was she supposed to say? ‘No, I ... How well do you know her, Michael?’ She relaxed a little, her voice steadier now she’d regained the initiative.
He laughed softly. ‘Let’s say I used to know her very well. Lately we drifted apart. You know how it is.’
‘Do you –’ Loretta looked at her watch, wishing she’d noted the time as soon as Michael started talking. How many minutes had the detective said were needed to trace the call? She couldn’t remember but anyway they hadn’t been talking long, probably not more than half a minute.
‘You were about to say, Loretta?’
‘Nothing. Is your name really Michael?’
He laughed again. ‘What do you think?’
I’m not that interested.’
‘Then why’d you ask? What’s wrong, Loretta, you have a bad day?’
‘No.’
‘Where’d you go? You were out a long time, I tried your number over and over.’
‘Why didn’t you leave a message?’
‘Oh, I guess I get tongue-tied when I hear those machines. Have you been doing the town, Loretta? Seeing the sights?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like what? Where’d you go?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Like I said, I’m building a picture of you from your voice. You sound an educated kind of a person, I guess you wouldn’t be interested in the usual tourist junk — the Empire State Building, that not’s exactly your scene, right? Come on, tell me where you went all day. Some gallery maybe? The Met?’
‘The Met? Why’d you say that? Have you been watching me?’
‘Why would I watch you, Loretta? Talking’s much more fun.’ Then, in a businesslike tone, as if the conversation up to now had been an exchange of pleasantries between colleagues: ‘OK, tell me what you’re wearing.’
‘What?’
‘Your clothes. Tell me what you’re wearing.’
Involuntarily she glanced down. ‘Trousers.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’m disappointed, Loretta. I don’t much care for women in trousers. Unless they’re tight. Are they tight?’
‘No.’
‘OK, what else?’
‘A — a shirt.’
‘This is not very interesting to me, Loretta. How about underneath?’
Loretta said: ‘A body.’
‘I know you have a body, sweetie, we’ll come to that in a moment. You’re keen tonight, Loretta, you’re getting right ahead of me.’ He was starting to get excited, she could hear it. ‘First I want to hear about your bra, your panties. What colour are they?’
For a moment Loretta saw the funny side. ‘Don’t you know what a body is? You’re not very up-to-date, are you? I thought everyone knew –’
‘Cut the crap, what’re you saying? This is some kind of ladies’ underwear?’
‘It’s — it’s like a leotard.’
‘You mean one of those all-in-ones?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cut high on the leg?’
‘Yes.’ He was back on course, recovered from the temporary reverse.
‘And a low neck?’
She said nothing.
‘Come on, Loretta. I’m waiting. Does it — I want to know about cleavage.’
She blurted out: ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Doing what? We’re just having a nice little talk.’
She said more calmly: ‘Asking all these questions.’
‘I’m just being friendly, Loretta. You’re a stranger here –’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘You told me last night. Loretta, you’re not getting all antsy again? What’s your problem?’
‘What’s my problem? All right, Michael,’ she said in an altogether different tone voice, ‘why don’t you tell me something about yourself? Shall we start with what you’re wearing?’
‘This is not playing the game. Do you have a boyfriend, Loretta?’
‘No.’
‘I hoped you might say that. But you do like men, Loretta? You’re not one of those ... dykes?’
‘My sexual –’
‘You better not be because I’d like us to get together and have some fun. Do you like fun?’
‘Fun?’
Michael started gabbling: ‘Do you give head? Do you, Loretta? Uh ... I’m imagining your head in my lap ... uh, your hair ... my dick in your –’
‘Fuck off:’
She slammed the phone down so hard it bounced and she scrambled to put it back, her breath coming in short, angry gasps as she seized her notebook, rifling the pages in search of Lieutenant Donelly’s number. She dialled it, letting out a whimper of dismay when she heard the engaged signal, and fell back on the bed. Honey trotted over, alarmed by this unaccountable behaviour, and Loretta sat up, stroking the animal’s head, redialling Donelly’s number with her other hand. It was still busy but the moment she put the phone down it rang.
‘Ms Lawson, what happened?’ It was Donelly, sounding irritated. ‘I’ve been trying to call –’
‘Oh thank God,’ Loretta interrupted. ‘Did you get him?’
‘Why’d you hang up? Another minute and –’
‘You mean you still don’t — you let me go through all that for nothing?’
‘We had an unexpected technical problem,’ he said shortly. ‘Obviously there wasn’t any way we could let you know without tipping him off as well. And frankly, Ms Lawson, compared to some things I’ve heard, so far this guy is only borderline offensive.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ exclaimed Loretta. ‘I mean, having to talk to some pervert about... about fellatio is not my idea of — It’s obvious what turns him on, he was practically salivating, getting me to answer all those stupid questions –’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Ms Lawson,’ Donelly said more reasonably, ‘but please try and see it from my point of view – from the point of view of this office. You would not believe some of the stuff my officers have had to listen to. When he calls again –’
‘Again? Why should he? I’ve put the phone down on him twice’
The detective said patiently: ‘One of the things we’ve learned since the unit was set up is that these guys are unbelievably persistent. If I can give you some advice –’
She started to protest, then changed her mind. ‘All right. Go on.’
‘In our experience, profane language only excites these guys – coming from a woman, that is. Next time, if you could stay calm and just answer his questions –’
‘Is damn all right or will that turn him on as well?’ she asked furiously. ‘Oh look, sorry, I’m more upset than I — I didn’t think he’d upset me so much.’
‘I understand, Ms Lawson. That’s why we have to get him, so other women don’t have to go through this experience you’re having now. Are you willing to continue?’
‘I don’t have much choice, do I? There isn’t any other way you’re going to catch him.’ A thought occurred to her and she asked abruptly: ‘You don’t think — has it occurred to you he might work for the telephone company?’
‘That’s a line we’ve been pursuing, yes, but it isn’t easy, getting hold of employee records, not without a lot more to go on. I’ll get the tape over to our labs –’
‘Tape? What tape?’
‘We have engineers who can work on the recording, boost up the background and see if there’s any indication what type of a place he’s calling from. There was one guy, always made calls around two in the morning, turned out he worked the overnight shift on a hospital switchboard. I can’t promise anything but we’ll give it our best shot.’
‘All right,’ Loretta said tiredly. When the detective hung up she remained where she was, cradling the phone in her lap while Honey leaned against her calves and dribbled on her trousers. It occurred to her that she hadn’t said a word about her experience at the Metropolitan Museum and the eerie way in which Michael appeared to have known — guessed, more likely, she reassured herself — her movements. She picked up the receiver and dialled Donelly’s number but it was engaged again, perhaps he was already talking to someone at the lab he’d mentioned. What a job, she thought, wondering if it affected his private life: could you spend day after day soothing frightened women, exposed to a bizarre range of male fantasies, without being affected? Loretta tried the number again, wondering if there was a female officer on the team, she might feel better if she talked to a woman, but the line was still busy.
She glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly seven, yet Toni still hadn’t called back. With an exclamation of impatience Loretta got up, hurried into the kitchen and came back with the Sag Harbor number in her hand. The line connected at once but only to the answering-machine, Jay’s mother’s voice reciting that ridiculous, prissy message. Loretta waited impatiently for her to finish, tapping her foot when the outgoing message was followed by what seemed like dozens of beeps; half the population of the Hamptons must be undergoing some spiritual crisis, to judge by how many there were. She tagged her own message on the end, another request for Toni to ring her as soon as she could, with a rider to the effect that she was about to go out which made it rather pointless ... Suddenly Loretta realised she had around seven minutes to wash and change if she wasn’t going to be terribly late meeting John Tracey.
From the closet she seized a dress she’d hung up the night before, hopping across the room as she struggled out of her trousers, that wretched body ... In the bathroom she splashed water on her face and arms, feeling soiled as well as sweaty, not fully realising that what she was doing was at least in part a response to the dirty phone call. She hastily reapplied her makeup, trying not to think about what Michael had said, but her hand was shaking a little when she outlined her lips with lip pencil.
‘For God’s sake, Honey,’ she exclaimed, returning to the living-room to find the dog dragging her shoulder bag across the floor by its strap. A frantic chase followed, the dog only releasing its trophy when Loretta finally sat down on the bed and forced herself to feign indifference. She pulled on the blue silk dress, snatched up the bag with no time to investigate the damage and flipped on the radio, stopping in her tracks when she recognised the chorus of a corny Christmas hit from the early 1970s: ‘So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun ...’
Christmas songs in July? Loretta yanked open the front door, thinking angrily that she wasn’t having any fun, none at all, and glanced over her shoulder when she heard Honey roll on to her side with a loud sigh. In too much of a hurry to care that she might be abandoning the dog to an evening of glam rock, Loretta stalked out of the flat as the last bars of Slade faded and were replaced by Gary Glitter.
Five
John Tracey poured himself a glass of wine, put down the bottle and picked it up when he remembered Loretta. ‘More?’
‘Not this minute,’ she said, aware that his tolerance of alcohol far outstripped hers. She did not want to wake up with another headache.
‘I mean,’ said Tracey, topping up her glass as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘I was at Oxford with the bloke. How do you think I feel, grubbing around for dirt on a con ... a contemporary of mine?’
Loretta said, bewildered: ‘You were at Oxford with Bill Clinton? I didn’t know that.’
Tracey drank some wine. ‘I’m not saying I knew him but we were there at the same time. Haven’t I ever mentioned it?’
‘No. Did you meet him?’
‘I think he went out with a friend of mine. I remember her going out with a Rhodes Scholar, big bloke with fair hair who was very into politics. I may have met him at a party at Univ.’
Loretta frowned. ‘I don’t quite see what you’re saying. You don’t want to write about him just because you happened to be at Oxford at the same time? Isn’t that a bit... tenuous?’
Tracey scowled. ‘Either you see it or you don’t, Loretta. The guy’s practically the same age as me –’
‘Give or take a year or two.’
‘When you get to our age –’
‘Which I’m not.’
Tracey ignored this reminder that he was nearly ten years older than Loretta. He was in good shape for his age, his hair having turned grey so long ago that it didn’t seem to have anything to do with advancing years, his face craggy and attractive if not conventionally handsome. He said irritably: ‘What I’m saying is, even if I don’t actually know him, he’s one of my generation. The Sixties.’
‘The Sixties?’ Loretta was startled. She had never heard Tracey make this claim before; on the contrary, perhaps because he was a mature student, going up to Oxford in his early 20s after leaving school to work on a local newspaper, he had always expressed a degree of mild contempt for the sit-ins, demonstrations and revolutionary rhetoric of 1968. His attitude was incomprehensible to Loretta, who had watched enviously from Gillingham Girls’ Grammar School as les évènements unfolded in Paris and her friends’ older siblings went by coach to London to take part in demonstrations against the Vietnam war. She wondered what had prompted this volte face; surel
y not the reflected glory of having been at Oxford at the same time as the President?
‘Wait a minute, John,’ she said, ‘I’m not being deliberately obtuse, I just don’t see why you feel this ... this personal attachment to Bill Clinton. What about Whitewater? Are you saying there’s nothing in it?’
Tracey made a dismissive sound. ‘Whitewater, smoking bimbos, Vince Foster — what’s it actually amount to? What you have to appreciate, Loretta, is that the Right in this country aren’t used to being out of office. They’ll do anything to get back. This is not about some piddling little loan company in Arkansas, it’s about the elections in October. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Republicans take the Senate and then Clinton’s really fucked. Health care, you can forget it.’
Loretta waited but he didn’t add anything. ‘So why don’t you ring up the foreign desk and tell them that’s the story?’
As though she had said something incredibly naive, Tracey said: ‘Times have changed, Loretta, this new foreign editor’s not interested in what his reporters think. He gives you a story and you’re supposed to go out and stand it up. It doesn’t matter how you do it as long as you don’t invade Princess Di’s precious bloody privacy.’
‘What?’
‘The Princess of Wales’s private life, it’s the one thing nobody on the Herald’s allowed to touch. It’s ludicrous, given what everyone else writes about her, but it’s the one absolute no-no, even if I find out she’s been bonking Clinton. Which she hasn’t, as far as I know. Dirt on Bill’s what he wants, and I’m here to get it. Or Hillary, of course — he doesn’t care which.’
He fell silent after this not altogether lucid speech, picking up his fork and chasing a cold sauté potato round his plate. Loretta watched, eyes narrowed, wondering how best to penetrate his mood of volatile introspection. ‘John,’ she said finally, ‘there’s something I –’