“I’m sorry.”
“I guess I was wrong about what makes you upset. I guess—”
“I said I’m sorry.” On the street, a cab blared its horn so loud I couldn’t hear my own voice.
Krull said something.
“What?” I said.
“…take it…”
“What?”
“I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just been…”
“A difficult time?”
“Yeah.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”
“You’re not having an affair, are you?” I said. But he’d already hung up.
I pulled the note out of my back pocket and stared at the words. DON’T SHOW THIS TO HIM!!!!!
Was it really that important? As important as a dog, alone in an apartment, smelling nothing but the spilled blood of its owner?
My old apartment. I remembered the way it looked the day I moved out. The dark parquet floors, the small window overlooking the airshaft, the one wall of exposed brick that had seemed so New York to me, cold though it got in the wintertime. And the other three walls, clean and off-white, two tiny pinholes where I’d hung the framed Lichtenstein print I’d bought from the Museum of Modern Art the day I’d left Nate—a comic-book portrait of a dewy-eyed girl singing into a microphone.
I wondered if Marla had hung another picture in the same spot, if she had used the same pinholes. I wondered which corner of the apartment was her dog’s favorite, if she had dust bunnies under her couch like I did. I wondered if her blood had pooled on the parquet wood, if it had spattered the exposed brick.
“I guess I was wrong about what makes you upset.”
I read the phone number at the bottom of the strange man’s note, then pushed the buttons on Yale’s cell phone. For a while I stared at the eleven digits across the tiny screen, thinking, Who are you? What do you want to tell me?
On the day I’d moved into his apartment, Krull had unwrapped the Lichtenstein print, and together we’d hung it over his bed. Then we’d stood across the room, admiring the singing girl like proud parents.
“I like it there,” he said.
“Me too.”
“I like you here.”
“Me too.”
Reverie. That was the name of the print. It was still over our bed.
I hit SEND. Listened to it ring once, twice, three times. I was just about to forget the whole thing and hang up when I heard his voice—“Hello?”—lips tightening elegantly around the O. Where did he come from, anyway?
“It’s Samantha.”
“You found my new note?”
Found? Well, English is his second language.
“Hello?”
“Yes. I…I read it.”
“Is he with you?”
“Who?” I said. “Is who with me? Who are you talking about?”
“I don’t know his name. But he’s planning…”
A bulky group of jocks, probably college guys, passed and one of them broadsided me, practically knocking me to the ground. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, but I didn’t reply, didn’t even look at him.
“Planning what?”
What followed was several seconds of silence, with both of us pressed to our phones. Over all the traffic noise, all the pedestrian chatter and car horns and trucks barreling by like giant waves, I swore I could hear this stranger breathing. Finally, he said, “I can’t talk to you now. It’s not safe.”
“Just tell me—”
It came out a choked whisper, but still I could hear every word. “He is watching you.”
“Right now?”
“Always.”
I heard a click and a dial tone. And for a while, all I could do was stand there, remembering that feeling I’d had while talking on the pay phone, feeling it again like a stronger dose of the same, dizzying medicine.
As I walked back to the box office, I crossed my arms over my chest, tried to ignore the prickly heat at the base of my neck, the burning of unseen eyes up and down my spine. Instead, I focused all my attention on the sidewalk, carefully avoiding cracks and lines as if suddenly my life depended on it.
4
A Winner’s Tale
Back at the box office, I begged Roland to switch me with En. Yale frowned, but I told him I’d explain later—I just couldn’t work the window anymore.
Believe me, when you feel as though you’re being watched, the last place you want to be is sitting in a ticket window. So I suffered through four hours of answering phones next to Shell Clarion and her dehydrated protein bars, three of which I’d eaten just to get her to stop saying, “gluten-free.”
Bland as they seemed at first, the protein bars had a creeping, bitter aftertaste and as the day progressed, I felt as if I’d consumed a box of chalk. At least it was a Monday. Since the theater was dark, work lasted only until six p.m. rather than eight.
I grabbed my bag and quickly said good-bye to Shell, but the minute I stepped into the ticket room, my exhaustion evaporated and my heart started to pound.
“You look like you could use a little gluten,” said Yale.
“Walk me home.”
“I have to rehearse, hon. The audition’s next week, and—”
“Please.”
He looked at me. “Okay…”
As we walked, I told Yale how I’d called the stranger. I told him what he’d said, how I could actually feel the fear in the man’s voice when he’d whispered, “He’s watching you.”
Yale didn’t say anything right away; he just stared straight ahead.
“Don’t tell me you still think he’s a club promoter.”
“Oh, Sam…of course not, but…”
“But what?”
“Do you feel like we’re being watched right now?”
“Do you?”
“No. But you should trust your intuition, not mine. Yours is better.”
I exhaled. “I felt like I was being watched before work, when I was at a pay phone, leaving a message for my mother,” I said. “After that, I went to see Krull, and he had this look on his face like he was getting ready to leave me. And then I found out there was a woman killed in my old apartment, and then I talked to this…person. So—”
“There was a woman killed in your old apartment?”
“Yeah, and her body was dumped in Washington Square Park, of all places. Somebody must have done it during the thunderstorm, because otherwise he would’ve had at least a hundred drunk NYU students as eyewitnesses.”
“My God…”
“Yeah…so…I definitely feel like I’m going to jump out of my own skin, but whether or not it’s because someone is watching me is up for debate.”
“You want my advice? Don’t call this asshole anymore.”
“You don’t think he was warning—”
Yale stopped me in the middle of the sidewalk, putting both hands on my shoulders. “I think…you’ve got a fan.” He said it as if he were telling me I had a terminal illness. “I’m sure he’s probably harmless—most of them are. But…you know. You don’t want to encourage him.”
“Why would I have a fan, Yale? I work two minimum-wage jobs. I live in Stuy Town.”
“The Post called you a hero. The mayor gave you a fucking medal.”
“That was a billion years ago. There’s been a hell of a lot bigger heroes since then, and you know it.”
“Well, this guy remembers you. My guess is, he’s trying to get you scared again, so you run to him for help, and he becomes your hero. Come on—he tells Veronica your first and last name, but he can’t even give you the initials of this man who’s supposedly watching you always and has some sort of plan that he knows of—and didn’t tell you about, by the way?”
I looked at him. “You’ve got a point.”
“Of course I do. I know what makes people tick—especially fans.” He started walking again. “Don’t tell Peter, but…when I was ten, I used to daydream about setting R
ob Lowe’s house on fire and then saving him from it.”
I widened my eyes at him.
“Come on, I never did anything about it.”
We were almost at Stuyvesant Town. The sky was going glowing, gaudy pink as the sun set behind our backs. Home before dark, I thought. But still I felt that awful tingling at the base of my skull, down my neck, across my shoulders. He can see you better in daylight. “Can I ask you something, Yale?”
“I saw Rob Lowe’s house once. I was in a damn tour bus with my parents and my sister and I never went anywhere near—”
“Not that,” I said. “Do you…feel like we’re being watched right now?”
“No, honey, I still don’t.” Yale grabbed my hand and squeezed it, and didn’t let go until we were in front of my apartment building. Just before he left, Yale said, “There’s no way in hell John would ever leave you. Why would you think that?”
Because last night, after lying in bed alone for three hours, I said out loud, “He’s gone for good.” And the only thing that made me think I might be wrong was that he hadn’t taken the cat.
I didn’t say that to Yale, though, because I didn’t tell him things like that. Didn’t tell anyone things like that. I’d always believed that once you start talking behind your lover’s back, the relationship’s done. “He just looked kind of…cold,” I said. “I mean…you know…for him.”
“Trust me,” said Yale. “He’d rather die than leave you. He winked. “I know what makes people tick.”
When I opened the door to my apartment, the first thing I heard was a man’s voice shouting, “I’m gonna kill that fuckin’ bitch!”
I gasped, but only because I was startled. I’d walked in on enough similar outbursts to recognize it was only Pierce, yelling at a Yankees game.
I dropped my purse by the door and went into the living room where, sure enough, Krull and Pierce were sitting at opposite ends of the couch in front of the TV, a large pepperoni pizza on the coffee table. Jake the cat was lying on his back on Krull’s lap, grasping a pizza crust between his paws, while biting into it enthusiastically. He reminded me of a stoned, fat jazz musician playing the clarinet, and I have to say, I admired his complete lack of self-consciousness—his trust that the lap would never go away.
“Strange cat you got there,” Pierce told Krull.
“He likes crusts,” I said.
“Hi, Sam. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Krull smiled up at me. “Missed you,” he said.
Then what was this afternoon about? “Me, too.”
“Zach brought beer if you want some. It’s in the fridge.”
“Thanks.” I went into the kitchen and came back with a cold, sweaty can.
This wasn’t how I’d expected to spend the evening, but in a way it was better. Much as Krull and I needed to talk, I didn’t want to. Maybe his reluctance to discuss problems had finally rubbed off on me, but the thought of having a beer while listening to Pierce overreact to baseball plays sounded a lot more appealing.
Krull slid closer to Pierce, making room for me at the end of the couch. I squeezed in beside him and scratched Jake’s tummy. “So Zachary, who exactly was it you wanted to kill?” I asked.
“Jeter. They pay him too much. He’s getting so soft it’s…I’m sorry, Sam. I wouldn’t have called him a B if I knew you were here.”
“No offense taken. I’m a Dodgers fan.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Sadly, no,” said Krull. “Her grandmother brainwashed her when she was a kid.”
I stared straight ahead, making my voice into a robotic monotone: “TheYankeesareastoreboughtteam.”
Pierce chuckled.
Krull put his arm around my back and rubbed my bare shoulder. Maybe talking things out was overrated, after all. Because no matter what he might have said about where he was last night or why he’d been so quiet, there was nothing so reassuring as the gentle way in which he touched my shoulder.
“Did you see that? He just stole third! I swear to God, Steinbrenner needs to fire every one of those fuckin’ women, starting with Wells.”
Krull turned to me. “How was the first day of school?”
“Fine.”
“Didn’t they like making the collages?”
“I used to love making collages when I was a kid,” said Pierce. “It was the one kind of art I could do.”
“These are called ‘All About Me’ collages,” Krull said. “A nice way for the kids to introduce themselves, but our closet was like a magazine recycling bin all summer, right, Sam?”
“You’ll be happy to know they used almost every issue.”
“Did you have Playboy?” said Pierce.
Krull sighed. “No, Zach, she didn’t get Playboy for the four-year-olds.”
“Because if I was going to make an ‘All About Me’ collage, I’d need Playboy,” he said. Then, “Fucking Wells!” At the top of his lungs, without warning. Like some kind of testosterone bomb, detonating in the middle of our apartment.
Jake thudded to the floor and scurried out of the room.
“Jesus,” Krull said. “It was only ball one.”
“You mind if we turn off the TV for a couple of minutes?” Pierce said. “I just need a little…perspective.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea.” I flicked off the power button, though Krull rolled his eyes. The situation reminded me of something I might encounter in the classroom. It’s not fair, Ms. Leiffer. Just ’cause Zachary needs a time-out, how come we all have to get punished?
“Take a few deep breaths and find your center, Zach,” Krull said. “Repeat after me. ‘It’s only a game. It’s only—’”
“Okay, okay,” Pierce said. “I get the point.”
I bit into a piece of lukewarm pizza, took a sip of my beer. “Anyway, what I was going to say about my class was, I had to break up two fights today.”
“That seems excessive,” Krull said.
“Tell me about it. And one of them involved glue. My poor green shirt will never be the same.”
“Boys will be boys,” Pierce said.
Krull looked at him. “Why would you say that?”
Pierce shrugged his shoulders. “It’s part of being a kid, right? You get into fights.”
“But Sam never said it was boys who were fighting.”
“Oh…I…I just assumed that—”
“Girls fight too, you know. Just because a kid’s a boy, it doesn’t mean he’s some sort of violent personality, who—”
“Actually, both fights were coed,” I said.
Pierce’s face was starting to flush.
I glared at Krull. “But I think it’s perfectly reasonable to assume I was talking about boys.”
“Not if you’re a detective.”
Pierce’s face darkened another shade. His head drooped like a shamed dog.
Christ, John, what is your problem? I forced a smile. “As a preschool teacher I can tell you with certainty that boys are more prone to physical violence.”
Krull said, “Really?”
Pierce gave him a glare so hard and cold I half expected bullets to shoot out of his eyes. “That was a man who did that to her,” he said. “A man who was good and pissed off, and you know it.”
“I don’t know anything. And you know less.”
“What are you guys talking about?” I said.
“Marla Soble,” said Pierce. “Both our units caught the case, and we’re working with these guys from the Tenth and everyone—fucking everyone—agrees her fiancé is a major person of interest, except your boyfriend here. She cheated on him, for chrissakes.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re the one who brought it up!”
“No, I didn’t. I was talking about boys. Little boys from Sam’s class, you asshole—”
“Hey, calm down.” Pierce shot him a look. “Find your fucking center, why don’t you.”
Several seconds passed, during which t
he only sound came from Jake, who was such a noisy eater you could hear him crunching his food all the way in the kitchen. He made another sound too, like the smacking of lips, which still freaked me out.
Shortly after I’d moved in, I’d mentioned that smacking sound to Krull, in bed. “Cats don’t have lips,” he’d replied.
An odd statement to begin with, but hilarious to two people in the giddy aftermath of sex. Krull and I had lain on our backs, laughing until tears trickled into our hair and our breath came out in gasps.
“He’s at it again,” I said.
Krull said, “Who?”
“The lip-smacker.”
“Oh. Right.”
I looked at Pierce. “Our cat smacks his lips when he eats.”
“Ah…weird cat. Listen, John. I—”
“I’m gonna get another beer,” said Krull. “Either of you guys want one?”
“Sure,” Pierce said.
After Krull left for the kitchen, Pierce edged closer to me on the couch. “He’s taking this case too personally.”
“Well…I used to live in that apartment.”
“I know that,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s the reason. There’s something else going on in his head about Soble. Something he can relate to, or…”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe it’s the cheating part.”
I stared at him.
“I’m kidding, Sam,” he said, but I didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.
As soon as Krull came back from the kitchen, I turned the game back on, and the evening elapsed without incident. The Yankees even won, adding credence to Pierce’s belief that screaming obscenities at a TV screen in Stuyvesant Town can affect the outcome of a baseball game at a stadium ten miles away. No mention was made of the Soble case—not even peripherally—until the very end of the evening. After the postgame show was over, Pierce said, “Well, I’m ready to call it a night. Can I take a few slices home for the ghost?”
As I went into the kitchen to wrap three pieces of pizza in tinfoil, I heard Krull say to Pierce, “Sorry about what happened earlier. I…just have a lot on my mind.”
“No worries,” he replied.
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