Sliver

by Ira Levin

  She scooped in the container. “Seems foolish to waste a good night. . . .” She looked at him. Ate ice cream.

  He smiled and said, “I don’t consider it wasted. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  She looked at him. “I love you, baby,” she said. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Don’t you,” he said.

  In the morning he said he needed more time.

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Because I still think maybe you’re conning me, that’s why.”

  “I’m not,” she said, lying on her back, looking at the light, fingering the phone wire between her breasts.

  “Then you trust me. Just till this evening. I’ll bring Felice up then, I promise you, safe and sound. I have to speak to my lawyer about certain things and I’m having a hard time running him down. He’s in Vail, Colorado.”

  She said, “I want to go do some shopping.”

  “You can do it tomorrow. It’s snowing anyway, heavily. Nobody’s going out.”

  “I want to call Roxie, Wendy . . .”

  “Just watch what you say.”

  “I don’t want you listening!”

  “Then wait till tomorrow!”

  She hung up, sat up. Made a face at the light, stuck her tongue out.

  She got up and went to the window, tugged with both hands at the drapery cord.

  Stood with her arms folded, looking at whirling white flakes, white park, a white-quilted pinnacled roof, white gardens.

  The barren windowsill, only the telescope on it.

  “Hello, Mr. Yale,” he said. “My name is Pete Henderson. I’m a friend of Kay Norris’s, we’re coming to your party next Friday. . . .”

  “Oh sure,” Sam said on 1, standing by the living-room table, the phone at his cheek. “We’ve talked in the elevator.”

  “That’s right, I’m in thirteen A,” he said. “I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I just found out last night that today is Kay’s birthday.”

  “Oh?”

  “Her friend Roxie and I are setting up a little surprise party for her.” He watched her vacuuming in the bedroom on 2. “At nine o’clock tonight,” he said. “Her place. Kay’s, I mean. Just a dozen or so people. I know she’ll be pleased if you’re there. . . .”

  “I’d love to be,” Sam said. “Thank you.”

  “It’s apartment twenty B,” he said. “And would you please make it as close to nine as possible? The logistics are kind of complicated.”

  “Nine on the button,” Sam said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “See you then.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said. “It’ll be nice to talk about something besides the weather.”

  “You’re right,” he said, smiling. “Twenty B, nine o’clock.”

  They hung up.

  He drew a breath.

  Caressed Felice sleeping in his lap.

  Watched Sam picking up the phone.

  The beep sounded. “Hi, Jerry, it’s Sam,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to make it after all. I hope it doesn’t screw things up; maybe Milt can sit in. Take care.” He hung up.

  Went over to the window.

  Stood watching a snowplow clanking up the avenue sweeping a rampart of snow against the cars parked on the other side. Nice for the drivers when they got back.

  He tried to think of a present he could get her, something that, while not too expensive or personal, would show wit and discernment far outshining anything young Pete Henderson had in that department.

  Why did that name ring a bell?

  Of course . . . Henderson had been Thea’s husband’s name. And hadn’t her son’s name been Peter? Yes . . .

  Common enough, Peter Henderson . . .

  This one looked to be about the right age. Had the right coloring too—John Henderson’s reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. . .

  What a coincidence that would be, Thea’s son . . . Going, naturally, with women who looked like her, Kay very much, Naomi Singer a little . . .

  Could it be? And did Kay know? Was Pete Henderson the one who had told her about the bathing suits and summer dresses?

  He would ask her, once the surprise part of the party was over.

  12

  SHE STOOD BY THE COFFEE table, looked up at the light. “Enough is enough,” she said to her upside-down self in sneakers and jeans and the burgundy turtleneck. “It’s eight-fucking-thirty. I’ve got cabin fever. Let’s go out and get burgers or something. Don’t bother calling, just get your—” She turned as the hall door unlocked, opened. He came in with Felice looking around and meowing in his arm. “Hi,” he said. Dumped Felice to the foyer floor.

  She closed her eyes, drew breath.

  Opened her eyes as Felice went to the kitchen.

  “Hey, stupid, wait up,” she said, going after her. Felice stopped and turned, looked at her. She crouched, picked her up, stood cradling her on her shoulder; nuzzled the calico fur, kissed it. Felice squirmed.

  She carried her into the kitchen, crouched, let her jump off. “When did you feed her last?” she asked, switching the light on.

  “There was stuff out.”

  “What, an egg roll?” She opened the cabinet, got out a can. Felice meowed at her. “Patience,” she said, getting the opener from the drawer. Glanced at him as he came to the doorway. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.” He smiled and looked around, his hands in his jeans pockets, a bulky greenish-tweed jacket buttoned at his waist over a light blue shirt. “It looks like my kitchen,” he said.

  Dirty dishes lay in the sink, utensils and boxes on the counters, a dish towel over the knife rack.

  “Believe it or not,” she said, working the can opener, “I haven’t been up to my personal best the past thirty hours or so. That’s nice tweed.”

  “Ancient,” he said.

  “Did you speak to your lawyer?” She crouched, spooning food into the bowl while Felice stood watching.

  She glanced up at him. He shook his head.

  She spooned the food. “What have you decided?” she asked.

  “Let’s talk about it inside,” he said.

  She put the can in the garbage, the spoon in the sink. “How about over burgers at Jackson Hole?” she said. “I’ve got cabin fever.”

  He said, “Let’s talk first, okay?”

  She rinsed the water bowl and filled it, put it down.

  Went to him, smiled, kissed his lips. “Want a drink?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Kissed her lips.

  They went into the living room, hooking fingers on the way. Parted at the sofa, went around it. She sat; he went to the window.

  He split the white silk panels with a finger, looked out between them. “It’s starting again,” he said.

  “I’d still like to go out,” she said. Sat watching him, sitting against the sofa’s right arm, a folded leg on the cushion, a hand on her denimed knee.

  He went toward the other end of the sofa; stopped beside the coffee table, stood looking at her. Breathed a sigh. “Honey,” he said, “I would give anything if I could believe you. I mean it. But I just can’t see you forgetting about murders, especially when one of them was someone you knew, even if it was only slightly.”

  She said, looking at him, “You’re underestimating how much you mean to me, and how appalled I am when I think about the publicity. I’m not saying I’m going to be blissfully happy, that I won’t be bothered sometimes.” She shrugged. “It’s the best choice there is,” she said. “From my selfish viewpoint, and from yours too, I would think. Unless you don’t want to marry someone my age no matter what.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said. He backed to the side chair and sat on the edge of it, shook his head. “No,” he said, “you were afraid I’d jump, and you wanted Felice back.” Felice crossed the rug before him, black-tipped tail swaying. “Good girl, right on cue,” he said. “I’ve been training her.”

  They watched as Felice sank down on the cushion beneath the window, licked a paw
, pawed her face. “I really enjoyed having her,” he said.

  They looked at each other.

  She said, “What can I do to convince you I mean it?”

  “You can’t,” he said. Unbuttoned his jacket, folded his hands between his knees, sat looking at her.

  She said, “Are you going to turn yourself in?”

  “And spend my life in a loony bin? If I’m lucky?”

  “It wouldn’t be your life,” she said.

  “Watching network TV in the day room . . .” He smiled. “Arguing with the other loons about which channel. No. . . .” He shook his head and bent it, rubbed at the reddish-brown hair.

  She sat with her hand on her knee, watching him. “You know, Pete,” she said, “that if—anything were to happen to me, even if it looked like an accident or suicide, or a break-in or whatever—now, so soon after Sheer died . . .”

  “I know,” he said. “I’d be the number-one suspect.”

  She leaned toward him. “Baby, listen to me,” she said. “With a good lawyer you could be out in a lot less time than you think, and you can afford the best, can’t you? There’s the good that you’ve done, the money you sent to people, that’ll be considered too. And again, the fact that you turned yourself in, that would be bound to be a big point in your favor, I know it would. Honestly, baby.”

  He raised his head, looked at her.

  She said, “It won’t be so terrible. . . .” Smiled at him. “You’ll get love letters from women of all ages.”

  He said, “Sam is coming up.”

  She looked at him.

  He reached inside his jacket. “This is his,” he said. “My father put out a contract on him after my mother died. That’s when he got it. It’s a Beretta, nine millimeter.”

  She looked at the blue-steel gun in his hand.

  “It’s going to be a murder-suicide,” he said. “He’s been making annoying phone calls. Nothing major, I don’t think you even mentioned them to anyone except me.” He rested his wrist on his thigh, the gun in his hand tipped downward. “He misinterpreted some things you said in the park a while back. He was after you to stop seeing me—you know how jealous old men can get. They’re going to find a note about it next to his typewriter. I typed it last night while you were in the tub.” He smiled. “Not the whole time, the first twenty-five minutes or so.”

  She said, “Why is he coming?”

  “For a surprise party,” he said. “It’s your birthday.” He glanced at his watch, put his hand to the gun between his knees, fingers stroking the barrel. “The funny thing is,” he said, “he’s the one I really wanted to get all along. That’s why I brought him here, I was going to watch him and then do it when I found a safe way. Thea—my mother was going to him, to stay with him, when . . . They had a fight about it before the party, she and my father. She didn’t fall down the stairs, he pushed her, I saw.” He drew a breath. “It was Sam’s fault as much as his,” he said. “But then I—had to deal with Billy Webber. And Brendan Connahay died right after. So he got a new lease on life, Sam. On his apartment too.” He smiled. “He turned out to be pretty interesting, with the acting lessons, the for-real ones and the others. I won’t tell you what the proportion was.” He raised the gun, slid back its top and released it, aimed it at her, his finger on the trigger. “Do you have a knife under the cushion?” he asked.

  She sat looking at him.

  “Pretty cool,” he said. “I didn’t see you getting it there. Take it out now. Slowly, just with two fingers, not so you could throw it at me, and put it on the coffee table. Right now.”

  She put her hand down in behind the cushion and brought out—thumb and forefinger lifting the black handle—a wide-heeled twelve-inch knife with a pointed tip. She passed it to the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, reached, lowered it onto the coffee table.

  She sat straight, folded her arms. Sat looking at him aiming the gun at her.

  He lowered it. “It’s you or me, Kay,” he said. Glanced at his watch.

  “When’s the party?” she asked.

  “At nine,” he said.

  “What if he doesn’t come?”

  “He will,” he said. “He dropped out of a string quartet he plays in and he got you a present. When I left he was pressing his pants.”

  “Why did you have to ‘deal’ with Billy Webber?” she asked.

  “He found out the phones were bugged,” he said. “He was blackmailing me.”

  “How did he find out?” she asked. Unfolded her arms.

  He smiled. “He dealt drugs, he was paranoid about security,” he said. “He brought home a high-tech bug detector one night and got a positive signal. I almost fell through the floor. It was only a few weeks after people started moving in and I was still kind of nervous and excited about everything.”

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “I ran right down there,” he said. “He was in six A. I told him I was the owner and I’d gotten a signal he used a detector. I said I’d bugged the phones for kicks. We made a deal.” His hands held the gun between his knees, the muzzle down. “I gave him, I think it was two thousand dollars the first time,” he said. “I kept quiet about the drugs and he kept quiet about the bugging. Then he wanted more money, and more—much more, exactly the way blackmailers are supposed to. So I went in one day and switched some of his stuff around. It was such an easy thing to do. . . .” He sighed, glanced at his watch. Smiled at her. “Rafael, the super, was a funny situation,” he said. “It could have been a sitcom. The Odd Couple. He got curious about thirteen B and picked the lock one day when I was out. He didn’t know I was involved, he just didn’t want me around to see him doing it. When I got back, there he was at the console.”

  “More blackmail?” she said.

  “A little,” he said. “A couple of hundred a week. The problem was he got into watching, like you. He was in there four or five hours a day and at least two nights a week, running everything himself most of the time, neglecting his duties—and there was nothing I could do about it. Then he wanted to bring his wife. Next it would’ve been the kids. . . .” He sighed, shrugged. “She got a big cash settlement, Mrs. Ortiz,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, watching him, sitting with her hands on her knees.

  He said, “What did you do, look things up?”

  She nodded.

  He nodded. “Sure,” he said.

  “Did Naomi get hooked too?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Looked at her. “She wouldn’t let me turn it on,” he said. “She was your standard knee-jerk liberal, practically in tears about the civil-rights violation. I didn’t tell her, she figured things out herself. Channel Thirteen had run a Nova on electronic surveillance, and I made some dumb mistakes”—he glanced at his watch—“little things like knowing where she kept the place mats. Yes, we had an affair, but we only got together every week or so. She was uptight about it.” He smiled. “On account of our age difference—seven years. I was twenty-four then, she was thirty-one.”

  She said, “She was going to tell?”

  He nodded.

  “You made her write the letter. . . .”

  “No, I wrote it,” he said, smiling. “I pasted it together out of lines from one of her notebooks and then I made copies of it, good and dark, on a machine. Then I traced it about fifty times, till I was writing it, you know, with a flow. I had plenty of time; I gave a hundred thousand dollars to Greenpeace and she gave me a month to get the monitors out.” He glanced at his watch.

  She said, “I suppose in the beginning you—” He stood up, pointing the gun at her. “We have to go inside now,” he said. “If you scream you’ll be wasting your breath, Vida is out and so is Phil.” He stamped on the rug. “And the Ostrows are really having a party. That’s why I made it this late.”

  She sat looking at him. “Please, baby . . .” she said.

  He leaned at her. “There’s no other way,” he said. “Believe me, I was up all night trying to t
hink of one. You’re like Rocky. Sheer. Even if you swore you would take a bribe I wouldn’t believe you. Come on. Now.” He poked upward with the gun.

  She drew breath, shifted around, got up catching and slinging the knife at his head; lunged at him over the corner of the table as he ducked. They hit the arm of the chair; it fell sideward, spilling them to the rug; Felice meowed and ran.

  They rolled, she on top grabbing at the wrist of his gun hand. His other hand caught her throat, pushed her back; she clutched his arm as he rolled over her. He let go and got up, holding the gun; stood panting as she climbed to her knees holding on to the coffee table, rubbing her throat.

  “I can do it in here too,” he said. “I’m flexible.” She flung the Magritte book in his groin, grabbed his wrist with both hands as he bent, twisted his arm around over her shoulder, turning and hipping up under him. He howled, punching her other shoulder; she pulled the gun from his fingers, ducked and turned, backed toward the window, taking the gun in both hands, aiming it at him as he crouched holding his shoulder, rubbing his arm, blue eyes staring at her. Felice meowed, standing in the pass-through.

  They panted, watching each other.

  “I fired a gun like this at a range in Syracuse,” she said. “Get over by the wall there.”

  Watching her, he took a step to the side. “Kay . . .” he said.

  “Go on,” she said, holding the gun with both hands, her finger on the trigger. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear one more word out of you.”

  He stood still. “How about good-bye?” he said. Turned and ran.

  She followed him with the gunsight, didn’t squeeze, watched him run—not to the hall but through the foyer into the bedroom, slamming the door.

  She lowered the gun.

  Stared at the closed door.

  Ran to it.

  Stopped—cold circling her ankles.

  A snowflake blew from under the door, became a speck of wet on the wood.

  She closed her eyes, drew breath.

  Pushed the door against wind. Opened it to the wall.

  The draperies billowed and flapped in the lamplit bedroom, the left side of the window open to wind and snowflakes and darkness.