My heart stopped racing and came to a dead standstill. “What did you tell him?” I asked.
“Not much,” he said, with a shrug. “Told him I’ve seen you around the Village a few times, and that you come to the Vanguard once in a while, when Jimmy ‘the Bard’ Birmingham is doing his thing, but that’s all I said. Nothing else. Couldn’t tell him your name since I don’t know what it is.”
Whew! As hard as I’d worked to make a name for myself as a true crime reporter and mystery writer, this was one time I was glad my success had been minimal.
“Did he give you the money anyway?” I asked.
“Yep,” the young bartender replied, pulling the bill out of his shirt pocket and showing it to me. “Easiest hundred I ever made. I’m gonna split it with Jerry, though,” he said, nodding toward his fellow barkeep, who was busy at the far end of the counter. “Jerry didn’t speak to the man, but he took care of all the drink orders while I talked to him, so he earned his half. And we always split all the tips anyway.”
Figuring I’d learned all he could tell me about Rhonda and the bald man, I thanked my informant for his time and trouble, and offered my hand for a shake. “I’d give you a C-note, too,” I said, “but I don’t have one on me.”
“That’s okay, babe,” he said, with a flirtatious wink. “Just give me your name and phone number and we’ll call it even.”
“Down, boy,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. “That information’s not for sale.”
Chapter 16
ON MY WAY OUT, I WANTED TO STOP and get Abby and Jimmy and Otto to come home with me—or at least fill them in on the freaky stuff I’d just learned from the bartender—but I couldn’t get anywhere near them. They were surrounded by hordes of fawning poetry fans, avid dog lovers, and rapt admirers of beautiful women. They were having a really good time. I didn’t have the heart to bring them down to my level of anguish and anxiety. Besides, I was in a hurry.
Still hoping against hope that I would get home in time for Dan’s call, I barreled out the door and hit the street running. I’m not kidding. I was really running (ballet flats are a frantic girl’s best friend). The dense heat slowed me down a bit after just half a block, but I kept right on going, throwing one foot in front of the other, huffing and puffing till I thought my lungs would collapse, hurling myself onward like a racehorse—or a total nut case, take your pick.
Okay, I admit it. It wasn’t just the desire to talk to Dan that was spurring me on. It was also fear. (I’m such a sissy sometimes!) I was scared to death that the bald man’s long black limousine had been lurking in the darkness, waiting for me to leave the Vanguard and head for home. I was afraid that the sinister people in that sinister car were following me now— looking for a good opportunity to shanghai me (or watching to find out where I lived so they could shanghai me in the near future).
I kept twisting my head around, checking all the nearly empty lanes of southbound Seventh Avenue traffic, peering up and down the intersecting side streets, looking for the long black limo as I ran. But I didn’t see the car anywhere. And no suspicious headlight beams were creeping along behind me.
Finally, when I reached Sheridan Square, I allowed myself to decelerate. It was either that, or pass out. My lungs were strained to the bursting point, and so much sweat was streaming down my forehead and into my eyes I could barely see. By this point I felt pretty sure the limo wasn’t tailing me, but to be on the safe side, I made a sharp left turn onto Washington Place—which was a one-way street going west, which meant no motor vehicle could follow in the direction I was going (east) without breaking the law. (Am I tricky, or what?)
The sudden detour would add an extra block to my trip home, but I didn’t care. It was worth it for the peace of mind. Groaning, wheezing, and gasping for air, I slowed my pace to a stagger and pushed myself onward to Sixth Avenue (another one-way street leading away from my destination). Then, one block down Sixth, I branched off onto Cornelia (another one-way street, etc., etc.) and headed—at last!—for Bleecker.
When I neared the end of the block, however, I freaked out again. What if the limo had secretly snaked its way into my neighborhood and was now slithering around the area, waiting for me to reappear? What if Rhonda Blake and her big bad rich bald boyfriend were now searching the Village streets with binoculars, hoping to see me enter my building, and thereby ascertain my address?
(Okay! Okay! So I was probably overdoing it a bit—dreaming up more than my share of scary scenarios—but when you’ve been stalked, molested, strangled, and shot as I have in the past, you tend to get a little wary around the edges.)
So instead of hurrying to the end of the street, turning the corner on Bleecker, and going straight to the front door of my building as I normally would do, I pulled to a stop on Cornelia, next to the locked and gated passage to the tiny courtyard behind my apartment. Unlocking the tall metal gate with the key I always carry with me for emergencies, I pulled the gate open, slipped inside, and then closed and locked it again.
Stealing like a cat burglar down the narrow cement path to the inner recesses of the courtyard, I could feel my heart banging against my ribs and my hot breath surging through my lungs. I was even more frightened now than before. (You would be, too, if you suddenly found yourself in a pitch-black enclosure crawling with worms and spiders and God knows how many different species of rodents.)
I scurried down the overgrown walkway as fast as I could and hastily climbed the rusty metal stairway leading to the rusty metal landing outside my back door. Then I unlocked that door, pushed it wide open, and lunged headfirst into my kitchen. I was so glad to be home I fell to my knees and kissed the black-and-white-checked linoleum floor. (Okay, so I didn’t really kiss the floor, but I was so crazed I considered it.)
After closing and relocking the back door, I tossed my purse on the kitchen counter, gulped down a couple of handfuls of water at the sink, splashed some water on my overheated face, and then stumbled into the dark living room and over to the front window. I didn’t turn on any lights. I didn’t want to let anybody know that I was home. And I wanted to be able to peek out the window without anybody being able to peek in.
Standing to one side of the window, I stuck my nose through the gap between the blinds and the glass and peered out at the sidewalks and the street below. There were several cars parked at the curb, but not a single black limo in sight. And there was no moving traffic on the street at all. No people on the stoops or sidewalks, either—which kind of surprised me at first (Bleecker is usually a very busy byway), until I remembered the time (almost 2 A.M.), and the heat, and the holiday.
In spite of the inactivity, I stayed next to the window and stared down at the street for a few more minutes, keeping my eyes peeled for a black you-know-what. But when no such vehicle appeared, I started feeling kind of silly (really stupid, if you want to know the truth).
For God’s sake, Paige! I scolded myself. What on earth’s the matter with you? Why do you always imagine the worst and make such a big fat deal out of everything? You just tore through dark city streets and cut through a courtyard full of rats for nothing! Nobody was following you! Do you hear what I’m saying, you imbecile? Nobody was following you! And nobody is out there spying on you now!
Which was my second big fat misconception for the night.
And if I had let down my guard and turned away from the window at that moment, I never would have realized my mistake. I never would have known that a tall thin dark-haired man wearing dark pants and a dark T-shirt was lurking in the doorway of the laundromat across the street, keeping watch on my apartment.
But, as bad luck would have it, I didn’t turn away from the window. I was still standing there, staring out at the street in a dopey dither, when the slim dark figure emerged from the unlit laundromat doorway and—keeping his eyes trained on my building—slunk out to the curb. I saw him crouch down behind a baby blue Studebaker for a second while he tied his shoe. I saw him sidle over to the lamppo
st and hold his watch up to the light to check the time. And then, right before he left—when he tilted his head back and gazed up at the windows of my apartment one last time—I saw his face.
Bathed in light from the streetlamp, his menacing mug was clearly visible. And I stared at it in shock. It was the face of the tightlipped Stewart’s Cafeteria busboy—the one I called Blackie.
I NEVER WENT UPSTAIRS TO BED THAT night. I just threw myself down on the daybed in the living room and then sat there like a stump, smoking cigarettes in the dark and praying for the phone to ring.
It never did, of course. I figured Dan had tried to call me shortly after midnight as promised, and then, when I didn’t answer, had simply gone to bed. I hoped he hadn’t flipped out and started worrying about me too much (although considering the dreadful day and night I’d had, such a reaction would have been warranted). I hoped he was sleeping soundly and having the sweetest, most soothing dreams imaginable.
At some point during my nocotine-and-nerve-wracked night, I fell asleep, too. But I had nightmares instead of dreams. (I won’t disturb you with the details of those feverish visions. Believe me, you don’t want to know.)
When I began to regain consciousness in the morning—still dressed in my black capris and black knit shell, eyelids glued shut with mascara, face mashed into the mattress of the daybed—I felt like a dead monkey. (Sorry, but that’s the best way I can think to describe it.) My sweaty hair was matted, like a damp carpet, to my head, and my outspread arms and legs were as leaden as pipes (the plumbing kind, not the musical or smoking variety).
So when the doorbell rang—jolting me like a jack-in-the-box out of my horizontal stupor to a sudden sitting position—I almost fainted dead away. No exaggeration. My head was so dizzy I couldn’t see straight. And when I tried to stand up, I almost fainted yet again. Every object in my living room (the TV set, chair, lamp, radio, bookshelf, electric fan, telephone table, potted plant) was swimming in circles before my eyes.
Groaning, I flopped back down on the couch and cupped my spinning head in my hands. I just won’t answer the door, I decided. I don’t have to. Nobody can make me.
The bell rang again, but I ignored it. I was not in the mood to see anybody. And I was definitely in no condition to be seen. I was curious to know who was out there, of course (curiosity is my constant companion), but I didn’t have the energy, or the equilibrium (or, I’m ashamed to admit, the chutzpah), to go peek through the window and find out. If it was Blackie or the bald man, I reasoned (okay, rationalized), I might have a heart attack and die. And that wouldn’t do me any good.
The doorbell rang again . . . and again . . . and again. Aaaargh! Whoever was out there wasn’t giving up. I stuck my fingers in my ears, trying to block out the persistent piercing sounds, but it wasn’t any use. The bell just kept on ringing and ringing till it drove me clear out of my mind. I threw my hands in the air, leapt to my feet, sprang over to the door, and—without a single precautionary peek through the front window—buzzed the unknown caller in.
Yikes! I shrieked to myself, as soon as I realized what I’d done. Why did I do that? How could I be so stupid? And when I put my ear to the door and heard the slow, heavy, Frankenstein footsteps ascending the stairs to my apartment, I almost wet my pants. God help me! I’m a goner! A strong man could bust down this door in an instant!
Madly searching for a way to protect myself, I scrambled into the kitchen and—using every ounce of strength in every cell of my 5-foot 7-inch, 119-pound body—pulled the refrigerator away from the wall. (That’s right. The refrigerator! Shows you what a blast of adrenaline can do.) Then—thinking I’d make like Superman again and shove my Frigidaire across the room and park it in front of the door—I yanked the plug out of the wall, anchored my shoulder, hands, and forearms against the back of the appliance, and pushed with all my might.
The damn thing budged about an inch, but that was all. My adrenaline was all used up. (But you saw that coming, didn’t you? Hell, anybody with half a brain would have seen that coming! I, on the other hand, was utterly bewildered by my profound power failure—which will no doubt confirm your suspicions about the state my half a brain was in.)
I was standing in the kitchen like a dolt, struggling to catch my breath and wondering what to do next, when the mysterious intruder started wrenching my doorknob in a frenzy and pounding hard, really hard, on the door.
I didn’t answer this time. (I usually try not to make the same mistake twice in one morning.) Overcome with exhaustion and dismay, I collapsed against the refrigerator and slid down to a squat on the floor. I didn’t know what else to do. The fat lady was singing at the top of her lungs. The end was near. I might as well give up and “go gentle into that good night.” (Dylan Thomas, in case you’re wondering, with just a couple of words left out.)
The pounding on my door grew even louder. “Open up, Paige!” a gruff male voice shouted. “I know you’re in there.”
First I melted in joyous relief, then I stiffened in stark apprehension.
It was Dan, and he didn’t sound friendly.
Chapter 17
HAVE YOU EVER HAD TO FACE THE MAN you love with gobs of mascara smeared all over your cheeks, a hairstyle that resembles a bathmat, a damp, wrinkled, all-black costume fit for a witch (or a crow), and a great big suitcase full of secrets? Then you know how I felt as I scraped myself up off the floor, steadied myself against the refrigerator for a second or two, and then wobbled over to open the door. (Aghast, appalled, and ashamed are the first words that come to mind, starting with the A’s.)
I flipped the latch, released the deadbolt, slipped off the chain, and slowly cracked the door open. “Hi,” I said, gazing down at my feet as if they were the eighth wonder of the world. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”
Dan pushed the door wide and lunged inside. His anger was so intense I could taste it. “Don’t give me that crap,” he said. “You know why I’m here.”
“No I don’t!” I cried, telling the god’s honest truth (for once). I raised my eyes and met his irate glare head-on. “What’s the matter?” I begged. “What are you so upset about? Has something bad happened? Oh, my god! Where’s Katy?”
“She’s still in Maine with my folks,” he said, quickly relieving my mind on that score, but letting my other questions dangle.
“So what’s going on?” I spluttered. “Are you okay? Why are you so mad? Please tell me what’s wrong!!!” I was teetering on the edge of another emotional breakdown.
Dan grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me close, and peered deep into my eyes for a moment, obviously trying to judge the credibility of my frantic and concerned response. (I couldn’t blame him for that. Dan was a trained and efficient homicide dick; it was his duty to be suspicious. And, then, there was always the little matter of my less-than-stellar track record in the honesty department . . . )
Finally satisfied that I wasn’t putting on an act, Dan squeezed my shoulders, gave them a shake and growled, “Okay, so maybe you don’t know why I’m here.” Then, in a very sarcastic tone, he added, “But since you’re such a cunning, clever, and daring little detective, I’m sure you can figure it out.”
His voice was still angry, and his fingers were still digging into the flesh of my upper arms, but as he stood there staring at me, the expression on his gorgeous, stubbled, well-tanned face underwent a conspicuous change. Instead of fierce and furious, he now looked kind of quizzical and . . . well, amused.
“What is it?” I snapped, unnerved by his sudden shift in mood. “What are you smiling about?”
“Your face is all black,” he said, “and your hair’s kind of frizzy. Have you joined a minstrel troupe?”
“Very funny,” I said, resisting the urge to run and hide in the coat closet. I was embarrassed about my appearance, but really glad it had given Dan a chuckle. (Call me a boob, but I’d rather be laughed at than yelled at.)
“Hey, what’s your refrige
rator doing in the middle of the room?” Dan let go of my shoulders and walked over to the wayward appliance, brow wrinkled in a Mr. Fixit frown. “Is it broken? How long has it been unplugged?”
“Oh, er, just for a little while,” I stammered, feeling even more embarrassed than before. “And, no, it’s not broken. I’ve been thinking of redecorating the kitchen, and I wanted to see what it would look like on a different wall.” (Well, what was I supposed to say? That I was trying to shove it in front of the door so a deranged slasher couldn’t burst in and kill me?)
Dan shot me a sneer of disbelief, stuck the plug back in the socket, and—with barely an oof or a grunt—wriggled the Frigidaire back into place. Then he took a tray of ice out of the freezer, cranked the cubes loose, and stacked a bunch of them in a glass. “Okay, out with it, Paige,” he said, filling the glass with water and carrying it over to the kitchen table. “No more lies and deception.” He yanked a chair away from the table and sat down. “I want a full confession and I want it now.”
My head started spinning again. How was I going to deal with this one? Dan had obviously learned something about me since I’d last spoken to him—something that upset him so much he’d cut his vacation a day short, left his daughter with his parents in Maine, and driven all night to get to my apartment. But what exactly had he learned, and how had he learned it? How could I make (okay, make up) a good confession when I had no idea what I had to confess to?
Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Page 14