"It's all right, the place is almost empty,”
Andrew said.
"The waiter's standing right there.”
"He barely understands English.”
"Barely is enough if people are talking about ...”
Bowles lowered his voice. "About what we're about to talk about.”
Andrew looked him flat in the eye.
"Want to go for a walk then?”
"In this neighborhood?”
"You're the one who chose it.”
"No, I'd rather stay here.”
"Then let's get some coffee," Andrew said, and signaled again to the waiter.
Bowles commented on the fact that the cappuccino was frothy and lukewarm, not scalding hot the way some restaurants served it. Apparently he was a cappuccino expert. Andrew was drinking regular coffee, so he really couldn't appreciate what Bowles was saying. He hoped only that the lukewarm cappuccino with its milky white froth would help clear Bowles's head. He didn't want any mistakes here. Not with the timetable so tight. Not if this thing was going to work.
"Are you planning any other weekend trips?”
he asked. Bowles was now on his second cup of lukewarm cappuccino. His eyes seemed clearer.
His speech was no longer halting.
"When did you have in mind?" he asked.
"I thought this coming weekend might be a good time,”
Andrew said.
Their waiter was standing at the bar, talking to the bartender. There were only two other people in the place, sitting over near the entrance door. He and Bowles were virtually whispering; Andrew felt certain they could not be overheard.
"When exactly?" Bowles asked.
"Friday afternoon sometime. I just don't want you there on Friday night.”
"Is that when you plan to ...?was "I think it'd be best if you weren't in the apartment on Friday night.”
"We're talking about the Friday that's coming up, are we?”
"The eighteenth," Andrew said, and nodded.
"Well, yes, I think I may have some business in Miami that weekend.”
"Good, go to Miami. Make sure you let someone know where you can be reached.”
"I'll leave word with Emma.”
Andrew looked at him.
"Oh," Bowles said. "Well, I'll ... uh ...”
All at once startled by the thought that this thing was really going to happen, someone was really going to kill his wife.
"... make sure my secretary knows where I'll be staying. In case ... uh ... anyone needs to reach me.”
"Go alone," Andrew said.
"What?”
"Don't take the bimbo.”
"What?”
"Leave precious Liddy home. You won't need your little ray of sunshine in Miami. Now listen and listen carefully, because this is the last time we'll be talking until it's over and done with.
I'll wait for you to get back, wait till the cops are through with you, wait till I get your call. Then I'll meet you at the pay locker, and we'll open it together.”
"I still wish you didn't have to go into that safe.”
"Do you want protection or don't you?”
"It's just ...”
"If it looks like a burglar did it, you're home free.”
"I just think meeting you afterward is risky. In case they're still watching me or something.”
"Look, you can't have this both ways," Andrew said, his voice rising. "Either you trust me or ...”
"Shhhh, shhhh," Bowles said, and glanced toward the couple sitting by the door.
"If you trusted me," Andrew whispered, "it'd be a different story. I'd leave the stuff in a locker, and get out of town the same night I did it, even before the police knew anyone was dead!”
"Shhh, come on," Bowles said again.
"But you want to make sure I won't stick you with a bunch of shit from the five-and-dime ...”
"Well, no, but ...”
"... which is okay, I'd do the same thing. Just tell me where you want me to stash it. Name a place where there are lockers, anyplace you know where there are pay lockers, and I'll put the stuff there and meet you with the key as soon as I hear from you.”
Bowles thought for several moments.
Then he said, "The Mayfair Building. There are helicopters that leave from there for Franklin, if you want to fly out right afterward. The pay lockers are on the forty-sixth floor.”
"Good," Andrew said. "You have my number.
I'll be waiting for you to call as soon as you're sure the cops are done with you.”
He was lying.
The idea, of course, was to dress her so that she looked like the sort of woman who could turn a man's mind to mush. Calling her a woman was a stretch in itself in that Doris Franceschi-or Frankie, as Addison insisted on calling her -was but a mere sixteen years old, and entertaining lewd or lascivious thoughts about her could easily have landed a grown man in jail. But Addison's ploy was to treat her like a femme fatale, emphasizing the male name while advertising the contradictory femaleness of the witness sitting up there crossing and uncrossing her long, splendid legs.
Frankie was wearing a short, tight black leather skirt, and black stockings, and black high-heeled pumps, and a tight red silk blouse that was bursting with adolescent jewels. Every time she uncrossed her legs, the jury was afforded a quick forbidden glimpse of satin or silk, obliterated in the very next instant when once again she crossed them. Matching the black leather skirt and black stockings was long black hair that cascaded on either side of a pale white face with eyes the color of rich dark loam.
Her mouth was full and sensuous, adorned with lipstick the color of the blouse. You could imagine Dominick Assanti losing himself in that mouth, imagine him getting dizzy with thoughts of Frankie as he remembered what they'd done together in her hallway.
Watching her, Louise Carella was thinking that if her daughter had ever dressed that way when she was sixteen, she'd have broken her head.
Sitting beside her, Angela was thinking that after delivering twins, she herself would never look that way again-if ever she had. Carella was thinking that dressing her like an Ainsley Avenue whore wasn't going to help Addison's case-he hoped.
"Can you tell us," Addison said, "about what time it was when you and Mr. Assanti were in your hallway together?”
"It was sometime between a quarter to nine and twenty after nine.”
"What were you doing during that time, do you remember?”
"Yes," Frankie said.
"Tell us," Addison said, and swung one arm wide to the jury, virtually bowing in her anticipated testimony. Nine men on that jury, three of them white, four black, and two Hispanic, all of them ogling young Frankie regardless of race, creed, or color. The three women watched her, too, thinking God only knew what.
"I guess we were necking," she said.
"By necking, do you mean ..." Withdraw that.
Frankie, tell us what you mean by necking?”
"Well, you know. Kissing.”
"Were you doing anything else besides kissing?”
"Yes.”
"And what was that?”
"Well, petting, I guess.”
"How would you define petting?”
"Well, you know.”
"If it wouldn't embarrass you, could you please tell us exactly what you mean by petting?”
"Well, it would embarrass me, actually.”
"In which case I withdraw the question. As I understand it, then, you were necking and petting in your hallway for at least forty minutes.”
"Yes.”
"What happened then?”
"My father called me to come upstairs, so I went up.”
"Where did Mr. Assanti go?”
"Home.”
"How would you describe his condition at that time?”
"At what time?”
"When he left you.”
"He was excited, I guess.”
"He has testified that he was dizzy with thoughts of you. Did he seem dizzy?”
"Yes, he seemed very excited.”