The few automobiles in the streets moved past silently on tires cushioned by the snow. Even the rumble of the train on the elevated structure in the distance seemed muffled somehow, as though the snow underfoot, the snow on the rooftops and chimneys, the snow still swirling in the air, had woven an acoustic cocoon in which the only sound was the murmur of a heart.
Andrew knew he had to kill her, he was being paid to kill her. He knew, too, that he should have killed her last night. Killed her after the second time they'd made love, while she slept on her back with an odd, pleased smile on her mouth, dark eyes closed, blonde hair against the pillow, should have killed her then. Taken a knife from the kitchen and slit her throat.
Instead, he'd fallen asleep himself.
"Something?" she asked.
She was smiling.
She'd been smiling when they woke up this morning, and she hadn't stopped smiling since.
Turned toward him expectantly now, arm looped through his, smile on her face, brows arched in anticipation, waiting for an answer.
Something? she had said. Penny for your thoughts? And now she waited.
"I was just thinking of what we did last night,”
he said.
Which in a way was true. He'd been thinking of how he'd let pleasure interfere with business.
Last night would have been the perfect time to do it.
Bowles out of town, the lady's assassin right there in her fuckin bed. Last night was when he should have- "What did you like best?" she asked, and hugged his arm.
"Everything," he said.
Which was also true.
He liked women, there was no question about that, but usually he wanted to go home after the second time around. Sometimes even after the first time. Wanted to get dressed and get out, thanks, it was great, see you around the bowling alley. Or if they were in his apartment, he wanted them to put on their panties and run for a taxi, here's the fare, darling, I'll call you. Next summer. Last night, all he'd done afterward was fall fast asleep.
"What do you mean by everything?" she asked.
Still clutching his arm. Snow flying everywhere around them, the city hushed. Snow clinging to the long gray cavalry coat and the blue woolen hat. Dark eyes squinted against the swirling snow. Face fresh and shining and wet with snow.
"Tell me," she said.
Lots of women liked you to talk dirty to them.
While you were doing it, sometimes even after you'd done it. He knew the patter, knew what turned these women on, knew which obscenities to whisper in their ears, all the wetcunt talk, the bigcock talk, incitement to riot in the stillness of the night. Or better yet in broad daylight with a hand under a tablecloth and under a skirt, damptalk, he knew these women, he had met a thousand of these women in his lifetime. But he didn't think Emma was asking for an instant replay now, didn't think she wanted to buy his feelthy peectures, meester. She wasn't asking for that. He didn't know what the hell she was asking for, and he didn't care. He'd been hired to kill this woman.
"Cat got your tongue?" she asked.
Pussytalk? Licktalk?
Was that what she wanted?
"How far is this place?" he asked.
"Still five or six blocks," she said. "But it's worth it.”
"I hope so," he said. "I'm starving.”
"Best waffles in town.”
"Long way to go for waffles," he said.
"But it's such a beautiful day," she said.
"Yes," he said.
"I forgot to ask you last night," she said, and turned away from him, looking off into the falling snow. "Are you married?”
"No," he said.
"You don't have to ask me, do you?”
"No, I know you're married," he said.
"Would you like it better if I weren't?”
"I like it fine the way it is," he said.
He hated this kind of talk.
"Have you ever been married?" she asked.
"Never.”
"Ever come close?”
"Never. Never even thought of it.”
"How about any serious involvements? Have you ever been seriously involved with a woman?”
He really hated this kind of bullshit talk.
"Well, I've known women I liked a lot," he said.
"When you say you ...”
“Women I've been involved with, yes.”
"Lived with?”
"One woman, yes.”
"When was that?”
"Oh, a while back.”
"How long were you together?”
"Two, three years, something like that.”
"Don't you know how long?”
"Not exactly.”
"What happened?”
"It just ended, that's all. Things end, you know.”
"They don't have to, do they?”
"Well, it'd be very unnatural if they didn't.”
"Still ... there are people who stay together forever.”
"Well ...”
"Because they're good for each other," she said, and hesitated. "Because they love each other.”
"Well, I guess.”
"Did you love this woman?”
"I don't know.”
"What was her name?”
"Katie.”
“That's a nice name.”
"Yeah.”
"Who ended it? You or her?”
"She did.”
"Why?”
"I don't know why.”
"Well, there must have been a reason. ...”
"No, I don't think there was a reason. It just ended, that's all. It was time for it to end, and it ended.”
He'd never expected Katie to do what she'd done to him. Never. Twenty years old when he'd met her, a virgin, would you believe it? Hardly older than that when they started living together, taught her everything she knew. Katie Briggs.
Dark-haired girl, part English, part Scottish. Brown eyes. Complexion like milk in a dipper. Beautiful girl. So he came home one night ...
He'd been out playing poker the night Katie Briggs ended it. Left the poker game early because he wasn't feeling too hot, thought maybe he was coming down with the flu or something, and since he'd been losing, nobody complained when he told them he was splitting.
... came home that night and put his key in the door latch and walked in and found her in bed with two guys. One black, and one white, an equal-opportunity employer was young Katie. Naked and pale, with the black guy's cock in her mouth and the white guy's cock up her ass, that was the way Katie Briggs ended it, that was the way little Katie Briggs said farewell.
"Do you know what I liked best about last night?" she asked.
Back to last night again. Maybe she did want to tell him how much she loved fucking. You got some of these repressed housewives, they wanted to tell you all their rape fantasies, all their fantasies about being fucked by the entire prison population of Joliet, Illinois.
Maybe he'd figured her wrong. Go ahead, he thought, run with it, babe.
"What'd you like best?" he asked. "Your gentleness," she said.
My what? he thought, and almost burst out laughing.
She was looking up at him. No smile on her mouth. Looking up into his face, searching his face, seemingly waiting for him to say something.
He kissed her instead. When in doubt.
"I love you," she said.
This is going to be too easy, he thought.
"You understand he's a shmuck, don't you?" the lawyer said.
"Uh-huh," Carella said.
The lawyer had been appointed by Legal Aid to represent Hector Ruiz, who had decided on the advice of his good pal Detective Meyer Meyer that he needed an attorney after all, considering the fact that the police seemed to think his fingerprints were all over the gun that had killed Roger Turner Tilly. The lawyer was maybe thirty-seven, thirty-eight years old, and he was already going bald, which made him seem sympathetic to Meyer, who had gone totally bald when he was still very young. The lawyer was already trying to cop a plea even though a district attorney was nowhere in sight and he knew the detectives had no authority to strike such bargains.