by John Lutz
“Death can be complicated, too,” Fedderman said, joining in the glum philosophizing.
“Until you get right up to it,” Holstetter said. “Then it’s simple.”
17
Hettie didn’t exactly feel drunk. But it was a feeling close to being drunk. Maybe drunk with love.
She giggled.
“You okay?” he asked, raising his head so he could look down into her eyes.
They were in her bed, she realized, not even recalling how they’d gotten there. It seemed only minutes since they’d entered her apartment. She could barely remember walking from the lounge. He’d had her arm. She’d felt dizzy, disoriented, almost as if she were floating, being led, her feet not quite in contact with the ground. That was all she remembered, and how insubstantial and small she’d felt. No, wait…Hadn’t there been a subway ride? She seemed to recall the sound, the roaring, clacking, steely clamor. Maybe she’d dozed off. Subways always made her drowsy.
Anyway, here they were. She was on her back. He’d been tickling her right nipple with his tongue.
“Okay,” she said. “ ’Cept you stopped to talk.”
“No problem,” he said with a smile, and resumed paying extraordinarily close and gentle attention to her nipple.
“You slip something in my drink?” she asked, not angrily, but in a have-you-been-naughty tone of voice.
“Uh-uh. Did you slip something in mine?”
She giggled again.
They were nude. She did recall how they’d removed each other’s clothes, slowly, with soft caresses and frequent kisses. That had been his idea. A good one. This man was full of good ideas.
She lay with her eyes half closed, feeling his hand creep down along her stomach. She’d had no idea the flesh of her stomach was so sensitive. Down, down, closer, closer…when he began manipulating her she heard her own moan as if from a distance. How good he was at this! How he seemed to work his fingers in rhythms she rode up, up, up and then swiftly down…and then up again, each peak of emotion higher than the last. A knowing touch, gently tracing out the circular designs of a desire that turned her in on herself and consumed her very soul. The window air conditioner continued humming softly like an engine of her passion. A controlled and insidious sound. Irresistible…relentless…
She felt his softly circling fingers move away.
“No…” a woman pleaded, not wanting him to stop, knowing what would happen next. Her own voice. She pleaded again.
Not as if she really meant it.
You’re not fooling anyone, she said in her mind to the woman with her voice. Why don’t you just be honest?
He entered her slowly at first, unfolding her like a flower so she wouldn’t be injured. In and out slightly then, not far, not far, twice, three times, no pain…and he was all the way into her in a single lengthened stroke that left her breathless.
She began to say something as he began a slow and rhythmic rocking motion that caused the headboard to bump against the wall. Without breaking rhythm, he kissed her on the lips, using his tongue, stilling her words. She had no idea what she’d been about to say.
Not that it mattered.
In the morning he was gone.
Hettie reached over and ran the flat of her hand over cool sheet, then the cool pillowcase.
She felt a stab of loneliness, then of guilt.
One date. That had been all it had taken to get into her pants and beyond. What must he think of her?
If he thought of her at all.
She’d slept all night in the raw and was cool now. While the morning outside was warm, the air conditioner had been set on high and was running hard, winning its battle against summer. Hettie had goose bumps. She pulled the thin sheet up beneath her chin and stared at the ceiling.
Get up. Take a shower. Wash last night away.
In truth she remembered little about how he’d somehow talked her into bringing him to her apartment. Letting him stay, then sleeping with her. Or had she talked him into it?
They’d talked a while after arriving; she did have some recollection of that, snatches of memory. He’d been interested in her apartment, in the exercise area behind a folding screen in a corner of her bedroom. She remembered him effortlessly chinning himself a few times on the chinning bar. It was a collapsible piece of equipment, the bar set up firmly on a tubular steel frame, and would support much more weight than Hettie demanded of it. He’d been pretending to test the bar but really showing off for her. And he had plenty to show off. He was average-sized but extremely muscular, no stranger to working out.
About their lovemaking she remembered everything.
Or did she?
The smile that had started to form on her face faded. What wonderful things might she not be recalling?
Don’t be absurd.
The sheets still smelled of sex. Leave that behind you. New day.
But she didn’t want to forget everything about last night. That’s where the guilt crept in.
One cheap date!
She sat up in bed, and it was as if a headache had been waiting for her to make a move. It slammed her hard. The ache behind her eyes made her clench them shut.
Squinting, she climbed out of bed, felt the cool hardwood floor beneath her bare soles, and padded toward the bathroom.
Her gaze fell on her wristwatch on the corner of the dresser. Nine fifteen.
Jesus, what’s he done to me? He…?
She realized she still didn’t know his name. My God, what a whore!
At least he didn’t leave a wad of bills on the dresser. Not that I couldn’t use it…
A loud knocking on the door made her heart skip. Was he back?
Not likely. Ever. He got what he came for.
Hettie changed course, went back into the bedroom, and found her white terry-cloth robe. She slipped it on and tied the sash, then on the way to the apartment door ducked into the tiny bathroom and did what she could to rearrange her hair so she didn’t look like an escapee from Bedlam.
More knocking. Even louder.
She went to the door, peeked through the spy hole, and saw a man in a light-colored shirt cradling a long white box in his arm.
Leaving the chain on, she opened the door a few inches and peered out.
Big guy, dark mustache, a potato for a nose.
He smiled at her. “Flowers for Hettie Davis. That you?”
“It’s me.”
“Gonna open the door so I can deliver these, get you to sign for them?”
“Who are they from?”
“I don’t know.” He opened the box and held it so she could see inside. Pink roses. Lush and beautiful against soft white tissue. A dozen of them. “There’s a card, but it’s inside an envelope.” He shifted his weight and glanced at his watch. “Listen, lady, I don’t blame you for being scared. Hasn’t been that long ago a white florist’s box meant a dangerous killer to most of the women in New York. But I ain’t no serial killer. This is on the level, and I’ve got lots more deliveries.”
“Of course. Just a minute.” She closed the door, then went to where she kept tip money in the kitchen and got two one-dollar bills. She went back to the door and removed the chain, then opened the door.
These are from him. They must be!
She accepted the flowers and tipped the deliveryman, who gave her another smile and left, his descending footfalls clattering on the wooden stairs. As she closed and relocked her apartment door, she heard the street door down below whoosh open, then close.
After laying the box on the kitchen table, she opened it and fumbled to remove the small white envelope attached to a stem with a white ribbon tied in a bow. She opened the unsealed flap and withdrew the stiff white card, holding it to the light so she could make out the handwriting in dark blue ink.
Sorry I had to leave early.
Last night was too wonderful
not to repeat. I’ll call you soon
to see if you agree.
There was n
o signature.
A weight lifted from Hettie, and her headache magically disappeared. She still didn’t know his name, but he’d call, surely, or he wouldn’t have bothered sending flowers. Maybe he was married. Wanted by the police. On the run from the Mafia. She didn’t care. She’d be waiting for him with open arms, not to mention legs.
Don’t think that way, whore.
But she was grinning, immune from insults even from herself.
She found a tall glass vase for the flowers, and after arranging them, hastily placed them in the center of the small Formica table. Then she put some coffee on to brew and plodded back toward the bathroom to shower.
The needles of warm water on her breasts rekindled her desire.
Of course it would be nice if she had his name, but you took what you could get in this mixed-up and too-often-disappointing world. He’d already revealed so much of himself to her that eventually he’d tell her his name. She could wait. Hettie was patient, and maybe on the very edge of a love affair like none she’d ever known.
18
The late-morning sun beat down on Queens from a cloudless sky, shortening tempers as well as stark shadows. Already the temperature was almost ninety. As she drove, Pearl watched the people on the littered sidewalks, reading their faces and body language. Some of them trudged along looking beaten and resigned. Others scowled and swaggered, with fixed glares suggesting they were near the breaking point. Heat and the city.
Pearl was driving a dusty black four-door Ford. To anyone with a knowing eye it was obviously a city car.
A middle-aged man with a stomach paunch straining the silky material of a blindingly violet shirt glanced over at her from the sidewalk and frowned. What the hell are you doing here, in my neighborhood? Pearl gave him her dead-eyed look, but he continued to stare, unimpressed, as he absently unwrapped a piece of candy or stick of gum and tossed the wrapper on the sidewalk. That irritated Pearl. She considered stopping the car and bracing the arrogant bastard for littering. And that shirt must be in violation of some ordinance.
Forget it. Bigger fish to fry.
She turned up the blower on the car’s air conditioner and made a left turn. In the rearview mirror she caught a glimpse of the guy in the luminescent shirt standing and staring at her with his fists on his hips. Prick.
Pearl pulled the car to the curb diagonally across the street from Pizza Rio. It was almost eleven o’clock. She was hungry enough to eat a pizza, so somebody else would soon crave an early lunch and pick up the phone to order takeout. Then one of the two teenage boys lounging near the bike rack across the street would place a cardboard box in a warmer on the wide basket on one of the ratty bicycles and leave to make a delivery. Pearl hoped it would be the shorter, heavier of the two, leaving her to talk privately with the tall one, who must be Jorge Valento. Knowing she was a movie buff like himself, Quinn had told Pearl to look for Sal Mineo. From this distance, the tall one filled the bill.
Pearl settled in, leaving the car’s engine idling and the air conditioner on high. Even with the windows up she could smell the spicy scent of pizza being baked. It was making her hungry.
The two boys by the bike rack didn’t seem to notice her. Jorge leaned with his back against the brick wall, his hands in the pockets of his baggy, torn jeans. Now and then he casually spat off to his left, away from the bikes. The shorter kid was doing all the talking, all the time jumping around a lot like a junkie needing a fix.
After about fifteen minutes, the jumpy one was suddenly still, and Jorge raised his head with a sideways tilt. Apparently a buzzer or some other kind of signal had sounded.
Pearl was in luck. It was the short boy who scurried into Pizza Rio and emerged almost immediately with a large, padded black pizza warmer. He used bungee cords to strap it to the wire basket behind a bicycle seat, then mounted the bike and rode off, standing on the pedals and leaning out over the handlebars as he gained speed.
Good at his job, Pearl thought, which meant she might not have much time. She switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car.
Not moving from where he leaned against the wall, Jorge observed the woman from the car approaching in the corner of his vision. When she was within about ten feet, he pushed himself away from the wall and turned toward her.
Nice-looking piece, he thought. Compact, trim, good legs, great rack. Nice face on her, too. Long dark hair that’d be fun to yank on. Dark eyes. Maybe she was Hispanic, as he was. A sister. He might play that angle.
No, now that she was closer she looked Jewish. That was okay, too. It just required different moves.
He knew he had a beautiful smile. He aimed it at her.
“You’re a cop,” he said.
She didn’t change expression. Not much would surprise this one.
She flashed her shield. “I’m Detective Kasner.”
“And I’m not.” Play wise ass with her, see how she reacts.
She seemed about to yawn. “You’re Jorge Valento.”
It kind of bothered him that the bitch knew his name. “How’d you know?”
“I came to talk to you about Joseph Galin, the man whose body was found here in a parked car night before last.”
He made it a point to meet her direct stare, and then blatantly looked her up and down, lewdly appraising her.
She looked only mildly irritated.
“I don’t know much about that,” he said.
“Sure you do.”
“I told everything I know to another cop, yesterday.”
“Not everything.”
“Who says?”
“Homicide Detective Frank Quinn.”
“That the cop I talked to yesterday? Old icicle eyes?”
“Uh-hm. Those eyes are the windows to his soul.”
“So why should I tell you anything I didn’t tell him?”
“It’d be a lot easier to tell me. You see, in Quinn’s mind, me asking you is just like him asking you. When people lie or refuse to talk to me, which is to say him, he gets impatient.”
Jorge remembered the big cop, Quinn, the large hands with their knobby, scarred knuckles. Not a young guy, but you just knew he could still be mean, and that it was his way sometimes. Jorge felt nervous. It had to show. He mentally put his mask back on, rearranging his facial muscles so he looked bored.
“You look like Sal Mineo,” the titty little cop said.
“That’s what my mother says.” My mother, who died ten years ago of alcohol poisoning.
“If you don’t talk to me, you might not look like Sal Mineo much longer.”
Jorge didn’t like the way she’d said that, as if she meant it. “Is that a threat, Officer Kasner?”
“That’s Detective Kasner. And yes, it’s a threat.”
He was surprised. Usually they didn’t come right out and say it. “Cops ain’t supposed to threaten people.”
“People aren’t supposed to use illegal drugs.” She nodded toward the broken crack vials among the litter at his feet on the concrete.
“What drugs?” he asked.
“The ones in your pocket.”
Jorge realized how hot the sun was. He began to perspire.
“That pizza sure smells good,” Pearl said.
“You get used to it.”
“That’s ’cause you get to smell that way yourself. You’ll sure smell good to the lifers in your cell block. Before you know it, you’ll be Sally Mineo.”
Jorge gave her a laugh he didn’t feel. “You’re pretty tough,” he said.
“You don’t know the half of it, Jorge.”
“So how do I avoid learnin’ the other half?”
“Tell me what you know about Galin.”
“He was dirty,” Jorge said.
He watched her face, how she looked not so much surprised as disappointed. Cops were a club whose members had to believe in each other. Not to believe hurt. And it was dangerous, when you couldn’t trust the guy watching your back. The titty cop would be surprised if she k
new that when he was a ten-year-old kid he’d considered trying to join that club. Before he got mixed up in the gang that saved his life.
“It’s a dirty world,” he said.
“We agree. How was Galin dirty? Was he your supplier?”
Jorge almost smiled. She didn’t know much. “Naw, Galin never moved no stuff himself. He just watched over things, made sure nothin’ went wrong.”
“For the dealer?”
“Sure. Who else?”
She moved closer. For some reason she became scary. The eyes, maybe. Even the tits looked dangerous. “What I want now, Jorge, is the name.”
“The dealer’s name?”
“The name of whoever was paying Galin for protection.”
“That could get me in real trouble,” Jorge said, trying to find some leverage, an angle.
But the lady cop had all the leverage.
“You’re five minutes away from being taken away from here in handcuffs,” she said. “You’ll give us the name or you’ll see time behind walls.”
He kept his voice level, no quaver. He was no pussy. “You scare the shit outta me, lady.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s probably because you’re smarter than most of your asshole friends.”
He stared at her. She had him, and they both knew it.
“Name you want’s Legend Lawrence,” Jorge said. It had slipped from between his lips almost on its own, but not surprising him. His mind had made the calculation without him realizing it. She wasn’t bluffing. He had no choice but to give her something. Prison time—a real stretch in an adult lockup—scared the crap out of him.
“Don’t screw around with me, Jorge.”
“Well, that’s his street name, anyways.”
“What’s his real name?”
“That I don’t know. Honest.”
The titty little cop sighed. He didn’t like the way she sighed, as if she was giving up on him.
She turned, about to walk away. The big cop, Quinn, would be the next one he’d see, and there’d be no sense running and hiding from him. He was the kind who’d find you no matter where you went or how good you hid. Like a goddamned Doberman pinscher with a bloodhound nose. Fear washed over Jorge like cold water.