She wants to be kissed, he realized. Jesus, that's nice.
But when he put his arms around her, and she pressed her body against his, and he tried to kiss her, she averted her face.
"I've got some Lavoris," Peter said.
She chuckled.
"No," she said. "That's not it. But I'll be on the air at eleven, and I don't want everybody in the Delaware Valley thinking, 'That dame looks like she just got out of bed."'
"You really think it shows?" he asked, smelling her hair.
"Once might not," she said. "But we seem to have a certain tendency to keep going back for seconds."
"God, you feel good," Peter said, giving in to an urge to hug her tightly.
"Duty calls," Louise said, freeing herself. "Yours and mine. See what your machine says."
There were a number of messages. Barbara Crowley had called.
"Peter, your mother called and asked me if I was going to the wake. I told her that I expected to hear from you. Please call me. I'll go over there with you, if you want me to."
And Detective Jason Washington had called:
"This is Jason Washington, Inspector," his recorded voice reported tinnily. "It's five-thirty. In a manner of speaking, we have Gerald Vincent Gallagher. McFadden, the kid from Narcotics who identified the girl, went looking for him, and found him at the Bridge Street Terminal. The reason I say 'in a manner of speaking' is that Gallagher got himself run over by a subway train. After he hit the third rail. Hell of a mess. McFadden knew Gallagher, of course, and so did a couple of guys from the Fifteenth District. But under the circumstances, I think, and so does Lieutenant Natali, that they'll probably want Miss Dutton to identify the body as that of the man she saw in the Waikiki. They just took the body to the medical examiner's. Do you think you could get in touch with her, and take her down there around seven, seven-thirty? I'd appreciate it if you could call me. I' ll either be here at the office, or at the M.E.'s, or maybe home. Thank you."
And Lieutenant Louis Natali had called:
"Inspector, this is Lou Natali. Jason Washington said he called and left a message on your machine about an hour ago. It's now quarter to seven. Anyway, it's now official. Captain Quaire requests that you get in touch with Miss Dutton, and bring her by the M.E.'s to identify Gallagher as the guy she saw in the diner. You better warn her he's in pieces. The wheels cut his head off, intact, I mean. I'll try to have them cover the rest of him with a sheet, but it's pretty rough. And would you call me, please, when you get this? Thank you."
And Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein had called:
"Peter, what the hell is going on? I need that woman to identify Gallagher. Nobody seems to know where you are, so I called the TV station. I was going to very politely ask her if I could take her to the M.E.'s myself, and they tell me they don't know where she is, only that she left there with you. Jesus, it's half past eight, and I've got to get over to Marshutz amp; Sons for the damned wake."
That message ended abruptly. Peter was quite sure that Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein had glanced at his watch toward the end, seen the time, thought out loud, and then slammed the phone down.
The machine reached the end of the recorded messages and started to rewind.
"What was that all about?" Louise asked.
"Well, apparently an undercover cop spotted-"
"Who was she?" Louise interrupted.
It took him a moment to frame his reply.
"Three days ago, I would have said she was my girl friend," he said.
"Nice girl?"
"Very nice," he said. "Her name is Barbara Crowley, and she's a psychiatric nurse."
"That must come in handy," Louise said.
"Everybody who knows us, except one, thinks that Barbara and I make a lovely couple and should get married," Peter said.
"Who's the dissenter? Her father?"
"Me," Peter said. "She's a nice girl, but I don't love her."
"As of when?"
"As of always," Peter said. "I never felt that way about her."
"What way is that?"
"The way I feel about you," Peter said.
"I suppose it has occurred to you that about the only thing we have going for us is that we screw good?"
"That's a good starting place," Peter said. "We can build on that."
She met his eyes for a long moment, then said: "I'm not going to go look at a headless corpse tonight."
"Okay," he said. "But you will have to eventually."
"What if I just refuse?"
"You don't want to do that," Peter said.
"What if I do?"
"They'll get a court order. If you refuse the order, they'll hold you in contempt, put you in the House of Correction until you change your mind. You wouldn't like it in the House of Correction. They're really not your kind of people."
She just looked at him.
"I'll call Jason Washington and tell him to meet us at the medical examiner's tomorrow morning. Say, eight o'clock," Peter said.
"I've got to work in the morning," she said.
"We'll go there before you go to work," Peter said, and then added: " I thought you told me you went to work at two o'clock?"
"I usually do," she said. "But tomorrow, I've got to cover a funeral."
"You didn't tell me that," he said.
"It's my story," she said. "I was there when it started, remember?"
He nodded. They looked at each other without speaking for a moment.
"Why are you looking at me that way?" Louise asked. "What are you thinking?"
"That you are incredibly beautiful, and that I love you," Peter said.
"I know," she said. "I mean, that you love me. And I think that scares me more than going to go look at a headless body… or a bodyless head."
"Why does it scare you?"
"I'm afraid I'll wake up," she said. "Or, maybe, that I won't."
"I don't think I follow that," he said.
"I think we better get out of here," she said. "Before we wind up in the playroom again."
"Let me call Washington," Peter said.
"Call him from my apartment," she said. "What we're going to do is go there, whereupon I will pick up my car and go to work. You will go to my apartment."
"Is that what Iwill do?" he asked, smiling.
"Uh-huh," she said. "Where you will do the dishes, and dust, and then make yourself pretty for me when I come home tired from work."
"If you're going to be tired, you can do your own dishes."
"I won't be that tired, Peter, if that's what you're thinking, and I' m sure you are."
"I don't mind waiting around the studio for you," he said.
"But I do. I saw you looking at Sharon's boobs. And, although I know I shouldn't tell you this, I saw the way she was looking at you."
"That sounds jealous, I hope."
"Let's go, Peter," she said, and walked to the door.
Mickey O'Hara sat at the bar in the Holiday Inn at Fourth and Arch streets, sipping on his third John Jamison's.
It had happened to him often enough for him to recognize what was happening. He was doing something a reporter should not do any more than a doctor or a lawyer, letting the troubles of people he was dealing with professionally get to him personally. And it had happened to him often enough for him to know that he was dealing with it in exactly the worst possible way, with a double John Jamison's straight up and a beer on the side.
He had started out feeling sorry for the young undercover Narcotics cop, Charley McFadden. The McFadden kid had gone out to play the Lone Ranger, even to the faithful brown companion Hay-zus whateverthefuck his name was, at his side. He was going to bring the bad man to justice. Then he would kiss his horse and ride off into the sunset.
But it hadn't happened that way. He had not been able to get the bad man to repent and come quietly by shooting a pistol out of his hand with a silver bullet.