“That’s what makes them offensive.”
They chuckled and leaned closer together.
“Who’s playing, anyway?”
“Hmmm . . . I think it’s Pat Sommerall and John Madden.”
“Really! I knew they were big but I didn’t know they were whole teams.”
“The important thing to remember is how much it costs for a thirty-second spot during the Super Bowl.”
“How much?”
“More’n you and me are worth dead or alive.”
“There you go, playing cop again. When does the damn thing start?”
“Who are you—Miss What? I never heard so many questions from one person. Pregame is practically all afternoon. But the kickoff won’t take place till about six o’clock.”
She placed her hand gently on his thigh and began tracing small circles. “What’s on the docket till then?”
He felt tingling sensations and could not suppress a grin. He looked down at her. Her robe had fallen open at the neck. She wasn’t wearing a nightgown. He could see the upper portion of one breast. She took a deep breath and the breast swelled provocatively. Tully had no doubt she’d staged the whole sequence. He had never met anyone as adept at seduction. He had no objections. “Whadja have in mind?”
“Have I ever told you,” she said, “that you get out of bed way too early on Sundays?”
“I’m willing to be convinced.”
“Come on; I’ll make my case upstairs.”
“Leave the fireplace on. It’ll be nice and warm when we come back.”
“So will we.”
They did not return to the downstairs until mid-afternoon. Alice proved a prophetess: Both were feeling warm and wonderful. Tully’s entire soul was silently singing, “Sunday, Sweet Sunday.”
Alice went to the kitchen to begin preparations for an early supper. Nothing must interrupt the Super Bowl once it began. She also nibbled. She’d had nothing but the morning glass of orange juice.
Tully took command of the recliner chair and the TV’s remote control . Festivities had reached the point of presenting highlights of past Super Bowls. It was a source of continuing amazement to Tully that the networks were able, year after year, to get so much mileage and milk so much revenue out of a simple game that should take about an hour to play. With all the hoopla, extended halftimes, and commercial time-outs, even the duration of the game itself promised to stretch nearly four hours. Only in America . . .
After a time, he became aware of sounds coming from the kitchen—homey sounds. He smiled. This was good. The thought occurred again: marriage. He was quite sure Alice was willing. But if experience was any sort of teacher, that way lay disaster.
Something happened after a marriage ceremony. He wasn’t sure what to call it. Proprietorship, maybe.
Now he came and went at his discretion. So did Alice. They lived in the same house. They loved and cared for each other. But neither owned the other. There were no ugly scenes when he did not come home at the expected hour. Or, even worse, when he did not return for days at a time.
He well remembered the incessant argumentation and debates between him and his wife. The mindless accusations. He wasn’t running around with anyone else. And, despite her charges, his wife knew that. Pure and simple, she was competing with his work, and she couldn’t win. But she wouldn’t admit it.
No, this was good. This was right. Marriage would only complicate things.
There were times when he sensed that Alice was on the verge of broaching the subject, but she always backed off. However, because he was well aware that marriage was on her mind, he knew that one day it might come to an ultimatum. He didn’t want to think about that. For that could be the end of something great.
As his interest in the undiluted TV hype waned, he became more conscious of the sounds and the appetizing odors emanating from the kitchen. It was irresistible.
Tully stood in the kitchen doorway for some time savoring the scene. Alice, her back to him, was preparing a tossed salad. She seemed oblivious to all but the green pepper she was chopping. She was humming. He tried to place the tune. He knew it, but what was it? An oldie. She returned to the beginning of the chorus, and, with that, the words came to him. “We’ll be close as pages in a book, my love and I.”
Quietly, he approached her. She was unaware of his presence until his arms encircled her waist. She gave a startled gasp then relaxed and leaned back into him. He kissed the top of her head while holding her. “The cook needs a kiss.”
“She certainly does.”
“I feel good.”
“But I’ll bet you couldn’t leap over tall buildings in a single bound now!”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Who’s ahead?”
“In what?”
“The football game. The Super Bowl . . . what else?”
“They haven’t begun to fight.”
She laughed, “Well, at least this nonsense will be over until next fall.”
“There’s one more.”
“One more!”
“The Pro Bowl.”
“No!”
“Uh-huh. And we won’t have to wait till fall. They’ll start the exhibition season this summer.”
She made a face. “At least they’ll give us a couple of weeks off.”
The phone rang. It startled both of them. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
Tully stared at it as it rang twice more. He had a premonition. It was Mangiapane. There had been another prostitute murder. He had no basis for the presentiment. It was just there.
He picked up the receiver. “Tully.”
“Mangiapane, Zoo. We got another one. A hooker.”
“Was she cut?”
“Just like the other one. And branded.”
“Who’s with you?”
“Dominic. He’s just starting the SIR.”
“Uh . . . no. You do that.”
“Okay, Zoo.” Mangiapane felt honored. Just a rookie in homicide and the lieutenant was picking him over a seasoned veteran to make the report.
“You’re familiar with the first case. So when you start the report, I want you to pay special attention to the similarities—and differences, if there are any . . . got it?”
“Uh, okay, Zoo.” Humility quickly supplanted pride. It wasn’t his expertise; it was his familiarity with last week’s case.
“Where are you?”
“Michigan, near Central. Wait a minute,” Mangiapane glanced at his notepad, “7705 Michigan. You comin’? You can’t miss it. We got units all over the place.”
“I’m comin’. Get busy on that report.”
“Okay, Zoo.”
Tully replaced the receiver on the wall phone and, hand still on it, bowed his head.
Alice had heard only Tully’s end of the conversation. Clearly, it was police business. When she heard him ask, “Was she cut?” she knew. Actually she had known without having to overhear. Intuition.
“Damn!” Tully said, fervently.
“Another one.” It wasn’t a question.
“If only . . . if only I could have figured it out. I’ve had a whole week.”
“You can’t solve them all . . . especially with the little you’ve had to go on.”
“I shoulda done it. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d just been a little smarter.”
“You’re going.” Again it was not a question.
Tully nodded.
“I’ll wait dinner for you.”
“I don’t know when I’ll get back. It’s gonna be late.”
“It’s just pork chops and salad. They’ll keep.”
“Better you eat now. I might not even get back.”
“I’ll wait. And if you don’t get back, it’s okay. I understand.”
He gazed at her for several moments. There was sincere appreciation in his eyes. “Then I’ll be back. Sometime. But I’ll be back.”
He kissed her, then hurried upstairs to dress. Along the way, the thought occurred that he might still be married if his wife had had Al’s attitude. His next thought was that he was a very lucky man indeed.