Looker

by Michael Kilian

  Darcy. Bad Biker Bobby was about to become very sorry he hadn’t taken up honest work. Lanham started running.

  The state parkway was an old road, designed for pleasure drives in narrower, slower cars of a more leisurely era. The weekend traffic was heavy, but moving fast. It took Kitty’s full concentration to keep her place in it.

  They had not spoken since leaving the railroad station parking lot. She had something definite in mind to do or say to him, but was fighting herself over it. To intrude upon that struggle would be folly. He guessed she had come near to reaching a conclusion about what was going on between them, and what was to be done. If there was any chance for a last appeal, for one last grasp at saving rationality, he didn’t want to destroy it with an ill-chosen remark.

  He sat very still, as though pressed back in his seat by the force of the tension. From time to time, when she was preoccupied with shifting gears or changing lanes, he allowed himself a careful glance at her.

  Had she noticed, she would have found these most appreciative glances. A man ignores and forgets a great deal about his wife when a marriage endures. She had grown no less lovely, no less endearing, in the accumulating years since their daily lives had become one. Were he meeting her now for the first time, he would be quite smitten. He had a desire to touch the pale downy hairs on her arm, to rest his hand on the tanned smoothness of her thigh. Before the sudden wrench of their separation, he would have done such a thing as a simple, casual, almost careless gesture.

  They were nearing the city. These moments with her, spent in painful silence as they hurtled along to the inescapable point of parting, could be their last together. He compelled himself to accept that, to behave well, to do the gentlemanly thing and make it as easy as possible for her, and so for himself. These dwindling minutes would probably be much with him when he was old.

  A small red sports car cut arrogantly in front of them, causing Kitty to slam on the brakes. A.C.’s hand went instantly to the polished wood of the dashboard, then settled on his knee. Kitty tilted back her head and took a deep breath.

  “I had an affair,” she said. Her voice was calm.

  “What?”

  She repeated herself, this time spitting out the words. “I had an affair! I slept with another man.”

  Kitty pushed a windblown strand of hair from her eyes. “I did it several times—many times. For more than a year.”

  “With whom?”

  The words were stupid and unwelcome. He had uttered them as though in reflex, without thinking. He was completely numb. He didn’t want to know what naked male had lain sweating and entangled with the mother of his son. He didn’t want a name or a face. He didn’t want a focus for his pain and anger.

  And guilt.

  “It doesn’t matter really, does it?” she said. As she seemed not to realize, they were slowing. The other traffic was swiftly passing by, as though they were in another dimension.

  “I’ll tell you this, A.C.,” she continued. “He’s rich, as rich as I am. He’s in the Social Register, just like Bailey Hazeltine and all your other lady friends. He’s as attractive to women as you are. He’s equally charming. His manners are as splendid. He’s as sweet, and he’s far more thoughtful. He has a job. It’s a very important job. But he doesn’t let it consume his whole life. I’m not going to go on any more about him, because I don’t want you playing detective and embarrassing me any further. I don’t want you to find out who he is. But I want you to know this, A.C. He didn’t need anything from me. He didn’t want anything from me but me.”

  Suddenly aware of their diminishing speed, she pressed her foot hard against the accelerator, shooting ahead of a station wagon that had been passing her on the left.

  “He was in love with me,” she said. “He’s divorced. He wanted me to get a divorce and marry him. He still does. I had a letter from him last week. He said I’ve hurt him badly.”

  Was all this intended to make him jealous? A.C. didn’t know how she wanted him to respond, didn’t know how he wanted to respond.

  “Were you with him in London?” A.C. asked, very matter-of-factly.

  “London, Paris, New York, Boston, Bedford Village. What difference does it make? What if it were Poughkeepsie? Or Buffalo?”

  Bedford Village was an extremely expensive estate-strewn town in Westchester, about twelve miles from their house on the river. A.C. now knew exactly who this man was. But there was no point in uttering his name, unless he wanted to be vindictive—unless he wanted to make a really great mess of this.

  “I haven’t even seen him in months, A.C. I broke this off a long time ago. I didn’t love him. I don’t now. I didn’t even want to think about divorce. But it was just so wonderful to be loved the way that man loved me. I’ve never been loved that way in my life.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She looked over at him, for the first time since they began the drive. Her gray eyes, bright in the sunlight, were mocking.

  “It’s true,” she said.

  They were south of White Plains, approaching the city. The suburbs they passed through were old and thickly built.

  “In a way, I hated it, A.C. I was scared to death half the time. When I was with you, I felt sick and sordid and dirty. Christ, the guilt. I wanted to tell you at least a dozen times, just to get rid of the damned guilt. It made me feel worse than all of the suspicions I had about you.”

  She was gripping the wheel very tightly, oversteering enough to make the driver of the car next to them very nervous. The traffic was quite heavy now, though still moving fast.

  “That stupid, silly, childish bargain we struck in the beginning. That we’d forgive an affair, I thought, don’t you know, that it might somehow keep you from being unfaithful, that you’d never want to squander your only chance to cheat free of charge. But I knew almost immediately it was a mistake. I hated you for agreeing to it. I worried every time you talked to another woman. In the beginning, I think I went with this man just to try to get it all behind me, to get rid of this stupid, dangerous thing I’d intruded on our marriage. Maybe to get the score up on my side, against the day I’d catch you out.” She looked at him again. “But it didn’t work, did it? There was your part of the bargain, always hanging over me, always there. It was like a power you had over me. I couldn’t look at a woman I knew you knew without wondering if you’d been with her. Even Vanessa. Even my friends.”

  They were passing by apartment buildings now, some old and stately, some weary and drab. Beyond lay housing projects and the burned-out shells that the city would not remove and replace until the poor and the criminals who fed upon them had been swept away.

  A green highway sign flashed overhead. She turned right, following a route that took them back to the river.

  “Did you talk to a priest?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “What did he say?”

  “The usual things priests say. It didn’t do any good. Priests are not God.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  “You’re not God either, A.C. I thought you’d only lie to me, and that would make things worse. Also, I was a little afraid of you. I didn’t know what you’d do.”

  He reached and took her hand from the steering wheel. She resisted at first, but only for an instant, relenting as he leaned forward and gently kissed her palm. They drove on with him holding her hand in both of his.

  “I didn’t do anything with any of those women,” he said. “They were flirtations, nothing more. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  She pulled her hand away. They were approaching a tollbooth. He quickly took some change from his pocket and gave it to her, pressing it into her hand.

  “I still haven’t decided what to do, A.C. Except that everything will have to be different. I don’t know how we’re going to arrange that, but we have to. We have to try, if there’s ever going to be a life for us again.”

  “I’ll do whatever y
ou ask.”

  “No. You always do whatever I ask. Do what you think will help.”

  “All right.”

  “There’s one thing, though. And I don’t give a good goddamn how difficult it is for you. I don’t want you to ever see Bailey Hazeltine again.”

  “That’s all past.”

  “No it’s not. You’re seeing her now.”

  He said nothing. He sensed they were getting to the only thing she really wanted to talk about.

  “Bailey just popped up. I hadn’t seen her in months. She’s in trouble. I just tried to help.”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t sleep with her?”

  “She’s gone, Kitty. She comes and goes and now she’s gone again. Disappeared. I don’t expect she’ll turn up for a long, long time.”

  “I mean never, A.C. There’s no room in our marriage for that woman.”

  “All right.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes!”

  They reached Manhattan, following the curves of the West Side Highway. A vague haze had slid over the sky. The river water was gray, but still sparkling in the filtered sunlight.

  There was an open parking space just a few doors down from his building. It was illegal, but the police probably wouldn’t bother them about it until morning. She turned off the engine, leaning back against the leather seat and stretching out her arms. She let them drop to the tops of her legs.

  “It was a long drive,” he said. “Why don’t you come up for a drink?”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “It’s your apartment, Kitty.”

  “Our apartment.”

  He nodded. “Our apartment.”

  “All right. For one drink. But just one. The children will be worried.”

  “If they know where you are, I think they’ll be very pleased.”

  “I’ll call them.”

  They went upstairs without bothering the old doorman, who was asleep. The apartment was just as he had left it—a dreadful mess. Newspapers and magazines were scattered about, including one glossy fashion monthly that was opened to a picture of Camilla Santee. There were several glasses on the tabletops. One of his ties was on the floor.

  “Did you fire the maid?” Kitty asked, standing hesitantly in the middle of the living room.

  “She doesn’t come until Monday.”

  He began picking up the magazines. She went to a chair in the corner, pulling off her sweater and slipping off her shoes. She was barefoot; her trim, narrow feet were nearly as tan as her legs.

  “It’s hot in here,” she said.

  “I’ll open the doors to the terrace.” He clicked off the locks and pushed the doors open. The outside air was warm and moist, but sweeter than the staleness within, and there was a breeze.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  “A scotch and water, if you have any left.” She glanced around. “I heard about your drinking.”

  “Not all that much. The murder was hard to take. And then someone beat me up.”

  “Bill said you were in a fight in a bar.”

  “That was the office rumor. I was mugged. On the street. Over by the park.”

  She studied his face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Life in the city.”

  He poured scotch, rather heavily, into two glasses, then went into the kitchen with them to add ice and water. When he returned, she was leaning back in the chair, fully relaxed. She sat up and took the drink, making a face when she sipped it.

  “Good grief, A.C.”

  “Just one,” he said.

  “If that.”

  They sat quietly for a long moment.

  “You could stay for dinner,” he said.

  “I could.”

  “There’s not much here.”

  “I’m not exactly dressed for Le Cirque.”

  “We’ll get some takeout.”

  The front door opened. There was no knock, no call from the lobby, just a turn of the key. Bailey stumbled in, hair hanging over her face, blouse pulled out of her skirt, a large, long run in one of her stockings. If she had been doing drugs, the effect had worn off. Now she was simply very drunk.

  She looked at A.C., then at Kitty, a friendly but silly little girl’s smile crooked on her face.

  “Oh shit,” she said quietly. She backed up, then fled out the door.

  Kitty got abruptly up from her chair, jamming her feet into her shoes. She slammed her drink down on a table, spilling it slightly, then snatched up her sweater and purse.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Kitty. I’d no idea—”

  “You gave her the bloody key, didn’t you? You should have called her and told her you were bringing someone home for dinner.”

  Her face was very flushed.

  “Kitty, will you listen to me, please?”

  He reached for her arm, but she pulled away. His hand caught on her sweater. There was a slight ripping sound. It was the final touch.

  “I want you out of here,” she said, her voice almost a growl.

  She went to the door. There was only one elevator. She listened until she heard it close and start its descent, then she stepped out into the hall. He tried to follow, but the anger in her eyes stayed him. He hung in the doorway, wanting to kill Bailey.

  Kitty looked down at the floor, her hand pressed hard on the elevator button. He would have done great violence to anyone who hurt her as much as she had been hurt just now.

  “This is no way to end it, Kitty. Not like this. Not for this.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to have to do,” she said. “I’ll have to do what the lawyers say. But I’m going to get you out of my life and I’m not going to let you take anything with you. That includes the children, A.C. That includes Davey.”

  “Kitty!”

  “I can’t legally make you leave here until I get a judicial decree,” she said. “But I would truly appreciate it if you’d get out just as soon as you can. You, and your lady.”

  She said the last word contemptuously.

  When the elevator closed behind her, he stood staring at it for a very long time.

  If Bad Bobby Darcy had been smart, which he wasn’t, he’d have been out of New York within minutes of the shootout in that apartment up near Lenox Avenue. He might have tarried just a little to pick up some traveling money from one or two of his ladies, but then he’d have been long gone to the first big city that could swallow him up—Miami, Detroit, Philadelphia, Baltimore, any place with enough black people to make his just another black face—until he went into business again, got busted, and had his prints turn up in the cross reference.

  Lanham, knowing Bobby was dumb, expected him to hang around. He was a little king in the vast New York scheme of things, but the powers of kingship were not transportable. Lanham was sure he’d holed up among his subjects, depending on the fear of most of them and the love of a few to hide him and see him through. It was what people like Bobby almost always did and it was why they almost always were caught. There would always be someone who didn’t fear him enough or love him enough. Lanham had expected to hear from one of them at any time—someone Bobby had beaten up or cut or humiliated, someone looking for a reduced charge from the district attorney’s office or for the police to “lose” or “mislay” a file. Someone who just wanted the pressure to ease on the Deuce.

  Instead, Bobby had done something both smart and dumb. He’d had his hair cut properly, found himself a courtroom suit, and gone to a rich white man’s hotel down near Wall Street and the Battery, a brand new gleaming four-star high-rise palace of a hotel where the police wouldn’t have looked for him if he’d shot the mayor in the lobby in front of a hundred witnesses.

  In a courtroom suit, especially the pin-striped kind he might have seen on one of his lawyers, Bobby would likely have been given a room without question. The hotel was used by money men from all over the world. It accepted rich white men who happened to be blac
k as easily as it did rich white men who happened to be Japanese or Arab. If Bobby had minded his manners and been reasonably blasé about using one of the credit cards his ladies from time to time lifted from their more inebriated customers, he might have been able to camp out in the hotel for days or weeks, while the police plodded pointlessly through garbage-stewn alleys and urine-soaked unlit hallways all over the city.

  But Bobby had been dumb as well as smart. Instead of checking into the hotel, he’d had one of his girls acquire a john and accompany him to his room. Then Bobby had joined them in midtryst and established a temporary ménage à trois. He hadn’t been content to heist the man’s cash, watch, and cufflinks—as he and his ladies had done to many a visitor to the city. He was apparently interested in serious travel money. It had not been determined what threat Bobby had used to persuade the gentleman to call his company in Houston to request the sum of $5,000, to be delivered to the hotel. If the man’s wife was the divorcing kind, especially the Texas divorcing kind, the mere fact of the chippie would suffice. The $5,000 had been sent. It had just arrived at the hotel’s front desk.

  Bad Bobby was that dumb. He was even dumber. He and his female assistant had moved into the man’s room sometime in the early hours of Friday morning. It was now Saturday. The man had been expected home on Friday night. His wife had called the airline and the local police.

  Bobby had sent his lady down to the front desk to fetch the money when it arrived. He’d persuaded his Texas hostage to tell the desk clerk over the phone that his “secretary” would be retrieving it.

  On a weekday, she might have passed relatively unnoticed, but on the weekend, the hotel was deserted. She might as well have been wearing a neon sign. She hadn’t gotten halfway across the lobby before a house detective had stopped her on general suspicion.

  She was now being held in the hotel manager’s office. She had told a detective sergeant from the precinct everything but her name.