I took out my keys, opened the door between the two storefronts, and tore up to the top of the dark, narrow stairwell leading to the living quarters. Abby’s place was on the left, mine was on the right. Panting as hard and fast as DiMaggio must have done after dashing across home plate (or getting to third base with Marilyn), I stood on the tiny landing between the two apartments, madly jiggling the keys on my overloaded chain, searching for the one that would open the gate to my safe haven.
But before I could find it, Abby’s door flew wide open.
“Boom chicky boom!” she said, stepping into the portal and leaning her left shoulder against the jamb. She was wearing her tight black capris and her color-streaked white painter’s smock. Her long, pitch-black hair was pulled back from her glowing face and wound into a braid the length and breadth of an elephant’s trunk. “It’s about time you got home,” she said. “I was getting ready to send out a pack of Saint Bernards-with little casks of booze on their collars, of course-to look for you. It is, after all, the cocktail hour.” To prove it, she raised the pale pink drink in her right hand to lip level and took a noisy sip. “I’m making pink ladies tonight,” she said. “Can you dig it?”
My anxiety melted away and my cold feet turned toasty. This was the kind of effect Abby usually had on me-and most other people, too. She was as warm and welcoming as a potbellied stove. “You heard my prayers,” I said, deciding to go straight into Abby’s apartment-shoebox and all-and worry about hiding the diamonds later. Why get in a dither about thirty thousand dollars’ worth of secret (possibly stolen) jewelry, when you can sit yourself down, light up an L &M filter tip, and have a pink lady?
The minute I stepped inside, however, I wanted to turn around and go home. The lights were low, the smoke was thick, and the hi-fi was playing Miles Davis at a deep, vibrating volume. A short, dark, beefy young man-dressed in nothing but a purple loincloth and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor-was thrumming his fingers on a set of bongo drums and giving me the kind of look that said, “If you come in here and wreck this wild thing I’ve got going with this unbelievably hot, groovy babe, I’ll have to kill you.”
I didn’t feel so welcome anymore.
“Oops!” I yelped, “I’m intruding.”
“Oh, don’t mind him!” Abby chirped, hopping over to her round oak kitchen table to pour me a drink. “That’s just Tony Figaro, from the bakery down the street. He’s been posing for me today. I got a new cover assignment from Lusty Male Adventures. ”
In case you haven’t already guessed, Abby was an artist. Not your average flower-vase-and-fruit-bowl kind of artist, but the kind who painted bold, dramatic pictures of bold, dramatic people in exotic (okay, erotic) scenes and situations. In other words, she was a commercial artist. A freelance magazine illustrator, to be exact.
And that’s how we happened to meet-the day Abby came up to the Daring Detective office to show Mario some samples of her work. She was sitting in the guest chair near my desk, waiting for Mario to see her, and we struck up a conversation. I mentioned that I was looking for a new, cheap place to live, and she told me the “pad” next door to hers was available. I went to see the apartment right after work and rented it that very same evening.
Mario’s reaction to Abby had also been immediate. He was so knocked out by her artistic flair (okay, figure) that he gave her three full-page illustration assignments on the spot. As Abby was fond of saying, “If the skills don’t get ’em, then the sweater will.”
Carrying a cocktail in each hand, Abby sauntered over to where I was standing, next to the little red loveseat that separated the kitchen area from the living area (actually the painting area, since Abby had always used the living room as her studio). “When the Lusty Male art director called me this morning,” she said, “and begged me to do a rush illustration of a brawny, bare-chested snake charmer, I immediately thought of Tony. I knew he would look cool in the costume.”
(Translation: She wanted to see him without any clothes on. Abby was the only person I knew who could call a purple diaper a costume, and still keep a straight face.)
“And he does, doesn’t he?” she added. “Look cool, I mean. The bongos are a stand-in for the snake basket. I’ll paint a turban on his head eventually, but I didn’t see any reason to make him actually wear one. Sitting cross-legged on the floor for three hours is enough punishment for one day, wouldn’t you say?”
“Uh… yes,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to standing in front of a near-naked man and talking about him as if he weren’t there. (And trying, but failing, to keep my eyes off his bulging loincloth.)
“You know, I never even called the model agency this time,” Abby blithely continued. “I figured why hire a high-priced professional yo-yo when I can get the world’s hippest, sexiest baker to pose for free? Right, Tony?” Smiling from ear to ear, she gave me a knowing wink, then handed me my drink.
“Right!” Tony proudly replied, straightening his spine and expanding his brawny bare chest to the limit. Then, beating his fingers lightly over the bongos, he gazed deep into my eyes and sent me another mental message. This one said, “Whoever you are, please leave now. If you go home and leave us alone, I’m gonna get laid. I know it! I can feel it! Please don’t spoil it for me!”
I gazed at Abby for a second or two, wondering if she wanted me to stay or go, trying to gauge if she was feeling amorous or not. But I quickly realized what a silly waste of time that was. Abby was always feeling amorous. And as much as I wanted to tell her about everything that had happened to me that day, I did not want to tell the whole story-or even one itsy bitsy little part of it-to Tony Figaro.
“Cheers!” I said, throwing my head back and downing my frothy pink drink in two gulps. Licking the foam off my lips, I set the empty cocktail glass down on the kitchen table and began backing toward the still-open door. I was glad I hadn’t removed my coat. “Gotta go now, kids,” I warbled, backing all the way out into the hall. “Brought some work home from the office.” I gave the shoebox under my arm a meaningful little pat, waved a brisk bye-bye, then pushed the door closed, leaving Abby alone with Tony to rehearse his new snake-charming techniques.
BURSTING INTO MY OWN APARTMENT, I flipped on the lights, locked the door behind me, and set the shoebox down on my yellow formica kitchen table. I was eager to go through all the stuff in the box-to look at the diamonds again and find a good hiding place for everything-but I was in way too much physical discomfort to even consider it. My feet were cold and wet, my shoulders were drooping from the weight of my heavy coat, my head was spinning from the chug-a-lugged pink lady, and the starving animal in my stomach was growling louder than the MGM lion.
I had to feed it-fast.
Kicking off my soggy boots and tossing my hat and coat on the chair nearest the door, I darted into the kitchen half of my narrow living area and skimmed my stocking feet over the black-and-white-checked linoleum to the refrigerator. I opened the rounded door and peered inside. I was looking for a nice roast chicken, some cornbread stuffing with mushroom gravy, a crispy spinach and bacon salad, and a bottle of white wine. What I found was a wedge of cheddar cheese and a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
I took both items out of the refrigerator and put them on the kitchen table. A box of saltine crackers and a can of Campbell ’s chicken noodle completed the menu. It was a feast fit for a Bowery bum, but I relished every salty, slurpy mouthful. And when I had finished eating, I felt like myself again. My usual frantic, screwball self.