'I know.'
'Do you? Why didn't she say anything when she saw me?'
'She's afraid.'
'Afraid of me?'
'Afraid you might not want her to leave.'
'And so I might beat her? Disfigure her? Stub out cigarettes on her breasts?'
'Something like that.'
He fell silent again. The car's ride was hypnotically smooth. He said, 'She can go.'
'Just like that?'
'How else? I'm not a white slaver, you know.' His tone put an ironic stress on the term. 'My women stay with me out of their own will, such will as they possess. They're under no duress. You know Nietzsche? 'Women are like dogs, the more you beat them the more they love you.' But I don't beat them, Scudder. It never seems to be necessary. How does Kim come to have you for a friend?'
'We have an acquaintance in common.'
He glanced at me. 'You were a policeman. A detective, I believe. You left the force several years ago. You killed a child and resigned out of guilt.'
That was close enough for me to let it pass. A stray bullet of mine had killed a young girl named Estrellita Rivera, but I don't know that it was guilt over the incident that propelled me out of the police department. What it had done, really, was change the way the world looked to me, so that being a cop was no longer something I wanted to do. Neither was being a husband and a father and living on Long Island, and in due course I was out of work and out of the marriage and living on Fifty-seventh Street and putting in the hours at Armstrong's. The shooting unquestionably set those currents in motion, but I think I was pointed in those directions anyway and would have gotten there sooner or later.
'Now you're a sort of half-assed detective,' he went on 'She hire you?'
'More or less.'
'What's that mean?' He didn't wait for clarification. 'Nothing against you, but she wasted her money. Ormy money, according to how you look at it. If she wants to end our arrangement all she has to do is tell me so. She doesn't need anyone to do her talking for her. What's she plan to do? I hope she's not going back home.'
I didn't say anything.
'I suspect she'll stay in New York. But will she stay in the life? I'm afraid it's the only trade she knows. What else will she do? And where will she live? I provide their apartments, you know, and pay their rent and pick out their clothes. Well, I don't suppose anyone asked Ibsen where Nora would find an apartment. I believe this is where you live, if I'm not mistaken.'
I looked out the window. We were in front of my hotel. I hadn't been paying attention.
'I assume you'll be in touch with Kim,' he said. 'If you want, you can tell her you intimidated me and sent me slinking off into the night.'
'Why would I do that?'
'So she'll think she got her money's worth from you.'
'She got her money's worth,' I said, 'and I don't care whether she knows it or not. All I'll tell her is what you've told me.'
'Really? While you're at it, you can let her know that I'll be coming to see her. Just to satisfy myself that all of this is really her idea.'
'I'll mention it.'
'And tell her she has no reason to fear me.' He sighed. 'They think they're irreplaceable. If she had any notion how easily she can be replaced she'd most likely hang herself. The buses bring them, Scudder. Every hour of every day they stream into Port Authority ready to sell themselves. And every day a whole slew of others decide there must be a better way than waiting tables or punching a cash register. I could open an office, Scudder, and take applications, and there'd be a line halfway around the block.'
I opened the door. He said, 'I enjoyed this. Especially earlier. You have a good eye for boxing. Please tell that silly blonde whore that nobody's going to kill her.'
'I'll do that.'
'And if you need to talk to me, just call my service. I'll return your calls now that I know you.'
I got out, closed the door. He waited for an opening, made a U-turn, turned again at Eighth Avenue and headed uptown. The U-turn was illegal and he ran the light making his left turn on Eighth, but I don't suppose it worried him much. I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen a cop ticket anyone for a moving violation in the city of New York. Sometimes you'll see five cars go on through after a light turns red. Even the buses do it these days.
After he made his turn I took out my notebook, made an entry. Across the street, near Polly's Cage, a man and woman were having a loud argument. 'You call yourself a man?' she demanded. He slapped her. She cursed him and he slapped her again.
Maybe he'd beat her senseless. Maybe this was a game they played five nights out of seven. Try to break up that sort of thing and as likely as not they'll both turn on you. When I was a rookie cop, my first partner would do anything to avoid interfering in a domestic argument. Once, facing down a drunken husband, he'd been assaulted from behind by the wife. The husband had knocked out four of her teeth but she leaped to his defense, breaking a bottle over her savior's head. He wound up with fifteen stitches and a concussion, and he used to run his forefinger over the scar when he told me the story. You couldn't see the scar, his hair covered it, but his finger went right to the spot.
'I say let 'em kill each other,' he used to say. 'It don't matter if she phoned in the complaint herself, she'll still turn on you. Let 'em fucking kill each other.'
Across the street, the woman said something I didn't catch and the man hit her low with his closed fist. She cried out in what sounded like real pain. I put my notebook away and went into my hotel.
I called Kim from the lobby. Her machine answered and I had started to leave a message when she picked up the receiver and interrupted me. 'I leave the machine on sometimes when I'm home,' she explained, 'so I can see who it is before I answer. I haven't heard from Chance since I spoke to you earlier.'
'I just left him a few minutes ago.'
'You saw him?'
'We rode around in his car.'
'What did you think?'
'I think he's a good driver.'
'I meant - '
'I know what you meant. He didn't seem terribly upset to hear that you want to leave him. He assured me that you've got nothing to fear from him. According to him, you didn't need me as your champion. All you had to do was tell him.'
'Yes, well, he'd say that.'
'You don't think it's true?'
'Maybe it is.'
'He said he wants to hear it from you, and I gather he also wants to make some arrangements about your leaving the apartment. I don't know if you're afraid to be alone with him or not.'
'I don't know either.'
'You can keep the door locked and talk to him through it.'
'He has keys.'
'Don't you have a chain lock?'
'Yes.'
'You can use that.'
'I suppose.'
'Shall I come over?'
'No, you don't have to do that. Oh, I suppose you want the rest of the money, don't you?'
'Not until you've talked to him and everything's settled. But I'll come over there if you want somebody on your side when he turns up.'
'Is he coming tonight?'
'I don't know when he's coming. Maybe he'll handle the whole thing over the phone.'
'He might not come until tomorrow.'
'Well, I could hole up on the couch if you wanted.'
'Do you think it's necessary?'
'Well, it is if you think it is, Kim. If you're uncomfortable - '
'Do you think I have anything to be afraid of?'
I thought for a moment, replayed the scene with Chance, assessed my own reactions after the fact. 'No,' I said. 'I don't think so. But I don't really know the man.'
'Neither do I.'
'If you're nervous - '
'No, it's silly. Anyway it's late. I'm watching a movie on cable, but when it ends I'm going to sleep. I'll put the chain lock on. That's a good idea.'
'You've got my number.'
'Yes.'
'Call me if a
nything happens, or if you just want to call me. All right?'
'Sure.'
'Just to put your mind at rest, I think you spent some money you didn't have to spend, but it was money you held out so maybe it doesn't matter.'
'Absolutely.'
'The point is I think you're off the hook. He's not going to hurt you.'
'I think you're right. I'll probably call you tomorrow. And Matt? Thanks.'
'Get some sleep,' I said.
I went upstairs and tried to take my own advice but I was wired. I gave up and got dressed and went around the corner to Armstrong's. I would have had something to eat but the kitchen was closed. Trina told me she could get me a piece of pie if I wanted. I didn't want a piece of pie.
I wanted two ounces of bourbon, neat, and another two ounces in my coffee, and I couldn't think of a single goddamned reason not to have it. It wouldn't get me drunk. It wouldn't put me back in the hospital. That had been the result of a bout of uncontrolled round-the-clock drinking, and I'd learned my lesson. I couldn't drink that way anymore, not safely, and I didn't intend to. But there was a fairly substantial difference between a nightcap and going out on a toot, wasn't there?
They tell you not to drink for ninety days. You're supposed to go to ninety meetings in ninety days and stay away from the first drink one day at a time, and after ninety days you can decide what you want to do next.
I'd had my last drink Sunday night. I'd been to four meetings since then, and if I went to bed without a drink I'd have five days.
So?
I had one cup of coffee, and on the way back to the hotel I stopped at the Greek deli and picked up a cheese danish and a half pint of milk. I ate the pastry and drank a little of the milk in my room.
I turned out the light, got into bed. Now I had five days. So?
FIVE
I read the paper while I ate breakfast. The housing cop in Corona was still in critical condition but his doctors now said they expected him to live. They said there might be some paralysis, which in turn might be permanent. It was too early to tell.
In Grand Central Station, someone had mugged a shopping-bag lady and had stolen two of her three bags. And, in the Gravesend section of Brooklyn, a father and son with arrest records for pornography and what the paper described as links to organized crime bolted from a car and sought sanctuary in the first house they could run to. Their pursuers opened up on them with pistols and a shotgun. The father was wounded, the son was shot dead, and the young wife and mother who'd just recently moved into the house was hanging something in a hall closet when enough of the shotgun blast came through the door to take most of her head off.
They have noon meetings six days a week at the YMCA on Sixty-third Street. The speaker said, 'Just let me tell you how I got here. I woke up one morning and I said to myself, 'Hey, it's a beautiful day and I never felt better in my life. My health's tiptop, my marriage is in great shape, my career's going beautifully, and my state of mind has never been better. I think I'll go join AA.' '
The room rocked with laughter. After his talk they didn't go around the room. You raised your hand and the speaker called on you. One young fellow said shyly that he'd just reached ninety days. He got a lot of applause. I thought about raising my hand and tried to figure out what I might say. All I could think to talk about was the woman in Gravesend, or perhaps Lou Rudenko's mother, slain by a salvaged television set. But what did either of those deaths have to do with me? I was still looking for something to say when time ran out and we all stood up and said the Lord's Prayer. It was just as well. I probably wouldn't have gotten around to raising my hand anyway.
After the meeting I walked for awhile in Central Park. The sun was out for a change and it was the first good day all week. I took a good long walk and watched the kids and the runners and the cyclists and the roller skaters and tried to reconcile all that wholesome innocent energy with the dark face of the city that showed itself every morning in the newspaper.
The two worlds overlap. Some of these riders would be robbed of their bicycles. Some of these strolling lovers would return home to burglarized apartments. Some of these laughing kids would pull holdups, and shoot or stab, and some would be held up or shot or stabbed, and a person could give himself a headache trying to make sense out of it.
On my way out of the park at Columbus Circle a bum with a baseball jacket and one milky eye hustled me for a dime toward a pint of wine. A few yards to the left of us, two colleagues of his shared a bottle of Night Train and watched our transaction with interest. I was going to tell him to piss off, then surprised myself by giving him a buck. Maybe I was reluctant to shame him in front of his friends. He started to thank me more effusively than I could stomach, and then I guess he saw something in my face that stopped him cold. He backed off and I crossed the street and headed home.
There was no mail, just a message to call Kim. The clerk's supposed to note the time of the call on the slip but this place isn't the Waldorf. I asked if he remembered the time of the call and he didn't.
I called her and she said, 'Oh, I was hoping you'd call. Why don't you come over and pick up the money I owe you?'
'You heard from Chance?'
'He was here about an hour ago. Everything worked out perfectly. Can you come over?'
I told her to give me an hour. I went upstairs and showered and shaved. I got dressed, then decided I didn't like what I was wearing and changed. I was fussing with the knot of my tie when I realized what I was doing. I was dressing for a date.
I had to laugh at myself.
I put on my hat and coat and got out of there. She lived in Murray Hill, Thirty-eighth between Third and Lex. I walked over to Fifth, took a bus, then walked the rest of the way east. Her building was a prewar apartment house, brickfronted, fourteen stories, with a tile floor and potted palms in the lobby. I gave my name to the doorman and he called upstairs on the intercom and established that I was welcome before pointing me to the elevator. There was something deliberately neutral about his manner, and I decided that he knew Kim's profession and assumed I was a john and was being very careful not to smirk.
I got off at the twelfth floor and walked to her door. It opened as I approached it. She stood framed in the doorway, all blonde braids and blue eyes and cheekbones, and for a moment I could picture her carved on the prow of a Viking ship. 'Oh, Matt,' she said, and reached to embrace me. She was just about my height and she gave me a good hard hug and I felt the pressure of firm breasts and thighs and recognized the sharp tang of her scent. 'Matt,' she said, drawing me inside, closing the door. 'God, I'm so grateful to Elaine for suggesting I get in touch with you. You know what you are? You're my hero.'
'All I did was talk to the man.'
'Whatever you did, it worked. That's all I care about. Sit down, relax a moment. Can I get you anything to drink?'
'No thanks.'
'Some coffee?'
'Well, if it's no trouble.'
'Sit down. It's instant, if that's all right. I'm too lazy to make real coffee.'
I told her instant was fine. I sat down on the couch and waited while she made the coffee. The room was a comfortable one, attractively if sparsely furnished. A recording of solo jazz piano played softly on the stereo. An all-black cat peered cautiously around the corner at me, then disappeared from view.
The coffee table held a few current magazines - People, TV Guide, Cosmopolitan, Natural History. A framed poster on the wall over the stereo advertised the Hopper show held a couple years back at the Whitney. A pair of African masks decorated another wall. A Scandinavian area rug, its abstract pattern a whirl of blue and green, covered the central portion of the limed oak floor.
When she returned with the coffee I admired the room. She said she wished she could keep the apartment. 'But in a way,' she said, 'it's good I can't, you know? I mean, to go on living here, and then there'd be people showing up. You know. Men.'
'Sure.'
'Plus the fact that none of this is me
. I mean, the only thing in this room that I picked out is the poster. I went to that show and I wanted to take some of it home with me. The way that man painted loneliness. People together but not together, looking off in different directions. It got to me, it really did.'
'Where will you live?'
'Someplace nice,' she said confidently. She perched on the couch beside me, one long leg folded up beneath her, her coffee cup balanced on the other knee. She was wearing the same wine-colored jeans she'd worn at Armstrong's, along with a lemon yellow sweater. She didn't seem to be wearing anything under the sweater. Her feet were bare, the toenails the same tawny port as her fingernails. She'd been wearing bedroom slippers but kicked them off before sitting down.
Lawrence Block - Scudder 1982 - Eight Million Ways To Die Page 5