by Art Bourgeau
She let herself feel his closeness, even though they weren't touching. There was a tingling sensation, a brief chill, and she crossed her arms, for a change not to protect herself from her feelings but to hold onto this special sense of closeness for as long as possible, to keep it from slipping away.
And just as it was about to fade, when they were in danger of losing it, he touched her and she turned to him. They came into each other's arms and held each other, at first just standing there, their bodies touching, and then, without coaxing or question, she raised her face to be kissed, and the darkness of his shadow crossed her face as he lowered his lips to hers. Whiskers and mustache, strange lips and whiskey added to the swirl of her emotions.
And then reality, her reality, abruptly stopped her from what she wanted most. To go on would mean the old nightmare she still couldn't cope with. The further they went, the closer he would be to discovering her secret. And when he found it out, even with a man like Felix, there would be the same look of pity that had been on Phil's face when he, too had touched her . . . She pushed him away, not looking at him, not seeing the surprised look on his face.
Her breath was ragged. "I can't. I'm sorry, I want to, but I just can't . . ."
And she had gathered up her things from the sofa and was out the door, never once daring to look at him.
CHAPTER 16
MISSY HAD had enough. Only moments earlier she had learned that her credit had run out at Le Club, the exclusive Olde City health club on Arch near Second. And it was not just the bounced checks. No, it was because the word was out—her father had left her nothing. She no longer was the right sort, no longer had the right stuff . . . a matter of genes and an inadequate inheritance. Nothing for it but to call in a major chit. She drove down Second Street to Walnut and circled the block to reach Chestnut, where she parked at a meter in front of the Philly Fish Company, then walked up Chestnut Street toward Third and entered a loft building near the corner. She rang for the elevator, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for it to arrive.
Long ago the five-story building had served the garment industry, and the elevator was a serviceable but old-fashioned freight elevator. When it at last arrived Missy pulled down and pushed up the heavy doors that opened horizontally rather than vertically as on passenger elevators. Once on board she closed them, pulled down the picket-fence safety gate and pressed the button for the fifth floor. When she got there she repeated the laborious process with the doors, this time not bothering to close them when she exited the old elevator.
The front part of the floor, the studio of Klaus Knopfler the sculptor, was filled with half-finished statues in stone, wood or welded metal, along with enough tools to stock an auto repair shop.
She moved past the sculptures without seeing any of them and began to pound on a plain door set in what looked like a temporary wall dividing the floor into halves, the rear half being the loft that served as Carl Laredo's living quarters. She could have used her key, but after the way Carl had behaved at Lagniappe, and with that Laura, he could damn well wake up with a bang . . . although not the sort of bang he'd prefer. That would come later, depending on his being a good boy . . .
After a few minutes a grumpy Carl, still half-asleep and wearing nothing but a maroon satin-and-brocade robe, opened the door. Clearly, she thought, he would have preferred to see someone else. Laura, no doubt.
Without being invited, she moved in past him and proceeded to the kitchen area, where she sat down at the large round table, lit a cigarette, settled back in her chair and looked at Carl, who was still standing.
"I finished my workout early this morning, thought I'd have breakfast with you before the lab. How about some coffee?"
"Sure . . . Look, about that night at Lagniappe and Laura, well, there's nothing between us. We were just friends out celebrating . . ."
Missy smiled. "Yes, how is Laura? Have you seen her recently?"
Measuring coffee into the filter, he said, "Actually I have—yesterday at lunch. She was having lunch with Cynthia Ducroit at the Reading Terminal Market, I happened to be there and Cynthia invited me to join them."
Missy's interest perked up at the mention of two of the women she despised most in Philadelphia being so chummy.
"And Laura? Did she invite you, too?"
"No, she was interviewing Cynthia for an article on Felix."
Getting better and better. "The coffee's ready, Carl." When he brought it she patted the place next to her at the table and asked him to tell all about his lunch with the ladies. "You know how fascinated I am when girls get together to dish someone . . .Did they mention me?"
"Yes, or at least Cynthia did."
"Why was that?"
"Jealousy, what else? I suspect Cynthia wants to get back together with Felix, only you seem to be in the way."
Missy took a drag on her cigarette. "Does she really think she can get Felix back?" she said, looking at him over the rim of her cup as she took a sip.
"I don't think she knows but I'm pretty sure she's going to try." Seeing her obvious discomfort at that piece of intelligence, Carl was secretly pleased. Missy deserved a little back, always so demanding, making him feel less than he was, so dependent on her when it was his art and talent that really opened the way for him. All his life, though, if he were to be honest with himself, it had been that way . . . domineering, controlling older women, or women who acted as though he were something to be manipulated. Beginning with his darling sister, six years older, who always lorded it over him, beat him up even, whenever she caught him doing something no more venal than sneaking a cigarette in the bathroom or behind the shrubbery that surrounded their house. One time she'd gotten so mad at him she'd knocked him unconscious with her hairbrush, and just for looking, for God's sake, at her and some of her girl friends in a girls-only session in her bedroom. He was only ten at the time; you'd have thought he was some kind of most-wanted criminal. He never forgot that beating, and when she died a couple of years ago, he had to admit the tears wouldn't come, even though he tried to fake them for the sake of family and friends . . .
"Well, Carl, wherever you just went, come on back. Now tell me how the ex-Mrs. Ducroit thinks she's going to get Felix back."
"Probably by giving him what he wanted when they were married."
"And that is . . . ?" Although she knew the answer too well. "A baby."
She forced herself to sound calm. "What makes you think that?"
Warming to it now, Carl gave a full exposition of the lunch with Cynthia and Laura, told how Cynthia had admitted her career-oriented head at the time wouldn't allow for children but that she felt different now and if she got another chance she wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
Missy felt her throat tightening, could hardly breathe. And there was the flare-up of the pain around that scar, that twelve-year-old scar . . . Since the last attack at the opera with Felix, brought on by the same thing, the talk about pregnancy, she had done her best to keep even the notion of that unwanted state out of her mind. She had also bought a simple gold tie-clip and sent it to Felix with a note of apology and the inscription, "Please forgive this impetuous lady. Until next time . . . But now, with Carl confirming what she had worried about herself, she knew she would have to go into action, give up the demure and passive Miss Missy to get Felix. The little lady Cynthia with her cutsie La Charcuterie on Pine Street was going to be sorry she ever showed up in this town. The grand opening of her store was one thing . . . the grand opening of her legs to win back the prodigal ex was too much . . .
She took a deep breath and reminded herself of the reason she'd come to see Carl this morning. "Carl," she said, moving close to him, putting her hand on his thigh, "believe it or not, I've missed you. Sure, I was annoyed that evening at Lagniappe, but friends should stick together, right? We have so much in common, we've shared such pleasure . . ." And now her hand had moved upward, massaging him, squeezing, causing pain and then releasing him for pleasure . . .
a cycle that she knew he couldn't stand and couldn't resist.
"Missy, for God's sake, stop it. It's too early for that sort of thing. I've got to go to work, lots to do before the opening in New York—"
Which earned him a most painful tightening around his scrotum. "I'm glad you mentioned the move to New York, Carl. I want to be able to be with you, share some of it with you. I assure you Laura isn't the only one who knows people in that art world. We'll have such fun sharing things, like before, and I won't even interfere with your little teenie-boppers. After all, a man needs variety, I understand all that . . . but, Carl, for me to be with you, to help you, I'm going to need your help." All the while her hand being busy, busy, busy.
"Missy, what? Please . . ."
"What, Carl dear, is that I need you right now this minute to write me a check for fifteen thousand dollars. It will help me clear up some nonsense that's happened since my father died and free me to be close to you when you need me. And you're going to need me, Carl . . ."
He tired to pull away. "Missy, my cash is tied up. And I'm not as rich as you think I am anyway. There's a limit—"
But there was no limit to Missy's not so tender ministrations, and finally, he had no choice but to write her a check and beg her to bring him relief, which, smiling, she proceeded to do.
"You and your little winkie," she said. "All better now, lover."
And then she was saying, under her breath, "We're two of a kind," but she did not mean herself and Carl, she meant herself and Cynthia Ducroit. Two going for one—Felix. And only one would be left standing when the final round ended.
CHAPTER 17
WHEN LAURA looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, the gray morning light showed a face filled with exhaustion. The night had been a long and bad one, the two sides of her battling over the way she'd run out of Felix's apartment. She was brushing her teeth, the bathroom radio tuned to WMMR's "Morning Zoo," when she heard someone downstairs knocking forcefully on her front door. She tried to ignore it, but the banging wouldn't stop. Probably the meter man. But why so early? Holding her robe around her, she went barefoot downstairs to let him in.
Her front door was a blue-and-gray farmhouse door, the top half panes of glass, but the curtain over them kept her from seeing who was outside. When she opened it, she got a shock. Waiting on the steps was a darkly bearded man with aviator-style sunglasses and wearing a leather jacket. Momentarily . . . it was more than enough for her already frazzled nerves . . . she thought Terri DiFranco's killer had come to call. Then she shook off the image and took in the most welcome if unexpected sight of Felix.
"Good God, I thought you were the meter man . . . well, uh, come in . . ." She thought she'd never see him again after the way she'd run out of his place like some hysterical virgin.
"Sorry to disappoint you," he said. "No meter, but breakfast. Okay?" He jokingly turned it aside.
Laura nodded vigorously. "Yes . . . sure, but how did you find me? I didn't give you my address—"
"Oh, I did a little detective work. I looked in the phone book. By the way, keeping your number listed isn't such a good idea for someone in your line of work, is it?"
"I only used initials," she said lamely.
"Well, I've got coffee and fried eggs and bacon sandwiches on whole wheat with mayo, horseradish and Louisiana hot sauce." She looked at him. "Thank you, Felix, I'm really glad to see you, but I can't eat that stuff. I start off my day with coffee and a cigarette, never eat before noon—"
He marched to her small kitchen table where he began opening bags. "I figured as much. That's why I'm here. Someone has to save you from yourself, and breakfast is as good a place to start as any." He waved some newspapers at her. "I brought the papers but forgot the orange juice. You do have orange juice, don't you?"
"Yes, of course."
"Good. Now, I think you better put on something a little less interesting or there's no telling what might happen . . ."
Was he making fun of her? Giving her a bit of needling for last night? Whatever, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom and proceeded to fix things as though Felix were right behind her . . .She picked up her clothes from last night and separated them into the laundry or dry cleaning bags, straightened the teetering stack of books on the old steamer trunk that still served as her bedside table, emptied the ashtray and put last night's beer can into the wastebasket.
She took her time dressing, staying nude longer than necessary, knowing that she was half-daring, half-afraid Felix would open the door. That way she could get it over with, see the look on his face when he realized that she had only one breast, and she could finally stop kidding herself . . .
Glancing at the door, she began to dress: first, panties, silky soft, trimmed with lace. As she slipped them on she thought that even if her relationship with Felix couldn't go all the way, there was also no reason why she shouldn't feel as womanly as possible while she was with him . . . She chose a matching bra, also lace trimmed, and put it on, fitting her rubber prosthesis—she privately called it the thing—into it. Before she pulled on her pantyhose she checked herself in the mirror. Not so bad. She finished off with a pleated, gray wool skirt, white blouse with a bulky sweater vest and boots.
He was at the table, steaming coffee in a styrofoam cup in front of him, reading the paper.
"You were gone so long I was beginning to think you'd tied the sheets together and made good your escape."
She started to apologize with the cliché about women taking a long time to dress, but she stopped herself before it came out. She smiled sweetly and sat down. "I see the Globe here by my place, thanks. But what are you reading?"
"The National Enquirer, what else?"
"I don't believe it. Let's see," she said, reaching across the table for it. "Okay, your tastes are noted," but she still took the time to flip through it, feeling his gaze on her as she did.
"While you were upstairs I read the Globe. That was a moving piece you wrote about Flora, the old woman, and the relationship she had with this Terri girl. Like I said at dinner, I admire the way you think, your involvement, the way things affect you."
His soft, quiet voice touched her, and in spite of the tight rein she kept on herself she also felt herself beginning to relax, open up. She wanted more.
"Keep on doing what you're doing," he said seriously, looking directly at her, "and I'll be behind you a hundred percent." He reached across the table to cover her hand with his own.
"Thank you." It was what she wanted to hear, but still wasn't able to look at him.
Instead she looked at their hands, liked the feeling of his on hers, covering, protecting. His palm felt so soft. This was a hand meant to touch, to stroke, to bring pleasure, and she almost shivered at the thought of it. But it was not a weak hand. Soft as the palm was, that was how scarred and broken the back was. Two of the knuckles had been broken and were misshapen. In the valleys between them were angry red weals where the skin had been ripped open and sewn back together. She lightly traced the scars with her finger. "What happened?"
"Prison," he said. Nothing more.
And now she felt an overwhelming desire to protect him, to cover the broken part of his hand with the softness of her own. Then, just as at his apartment, when the feeling between them was created and began to fade, he moved, this time gradually pulling away, leaving her wishing for more.
When he said, "Should we go?" she decided he was as uncertain of them as she was.
"Yes," she said, hoping her tone would convey more than the simple word, that he would press her, take away her initiative, force her to see him again. She went to him and touched him, her hand moving lightly down his arm until they were holding hands again.
"I'm very glad you came," she said. "I mean it."
"Today is Halloween. What are you doing tonight?"
"I have to go to Henri David's ball at the Warwick, for the paper. And you?"
"I have to meet Cyn."
"So we couldn't have been
together anyway," jealous at the idea of him spending time with his ex-wife, and even at his nickname for her.
"No, no, it's just for a drink. She called up, there's something she wants to talk about. I agreed to meet her but after that I'm free"
"What about Missy? I would have thought she might figure in your Halloween plans." Wonderful, Laura, play the jealous shrew. Just what he needed to hear. Cut it out . . .
Felix stopped, took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.
"Laura, enough. I don't need you to remind me about my ex-wife or Missy. I already know what I'm going to do about them, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a button on those very pretty lips of yours. Anyway, jealousy doesn't become you, never mind that it doesn't apply so far as I'm concerned."
"I'm sorry . . . of course you're right . . ."
"Good. Now, it seems tonight is out. So dinner tomorrow." It was not put as a question.
She quickly agreed and they sealed it with a kiss, one that took something for the moment and left more for the future. At the door they kissed lightly again, almost like old lovers parting, and she stood on the steps watching until he was out of sight.
Before she could go back inside, Jean, her heavyset next-door neighbor, came out all red-faced and upset.
"What's wrong?" Laura said.
"I just got a call from one of the girls over on Mifflin. A cop making his rounds cruised by the old depot and noticed a window was open. He checked it out. There was another body inside. They think it's Terri's girl friend. Marie . . ."
Laura felt sick. Not Marie. No. She turned and began to run toward the depot, hoping against hope that this time the neighborhood grapevine was wrong, but in her gut afraid they were right—and that her articles had caused it.
CHAPTER 18
WHEN THINGS were under control at the depot Sloan left the cleanup work to Rafferty and the rest of the squad and headed back to headquarters. He felt lousy, and from more than his cold. The case was falling apart in his hands, and he was responsible for at least some of it.