“On the three, sir,” I said, with a sickening sigh of surrender. I knew better than to try to explain myself. Even if I’d had a perfectly reasonable and true explanation to offer, it would have fallen on deaf (or, rather, diabolical) ears.
“And the little hand, Mrs. Turner? Pray tell, where is the little hand?” His beady brown eyes were gleaming with pleasure. Stripping and whipping the slaves was Pomeroy’s all-time favorite hobby.
“On the two.”
“Sir,” he said. “On the two, sir.”
“Sir,” I repeated, looking at the clock again. “On the two, sir.” Time sure does fly when you’re having fun.
Pomeroy shot a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Mike and Mario and Lenny were all paying attention. They were. Turning back to me, he said, “So, Mrs. Turner, if the big hand is on the three, and the little hand is on the two, what time is it?”
“Two-fifteen, sir.”
“Very good, Mrs. Turner!” he jeered. “I see you can tell time after all!” He took a deep pull on his pipe, then puffed a stream of fruity fumes in my direction. “Which means you knowingly and willfully-and totally without permission, I might add-extended your lunch break a full hour and fifteen minutes past your allotted time. Which means I would be well within my rights to terminate your employment right now-this very minute-before you can steal any more of the company’s time.”
All this from a man who typically spent a grand total of three hours and ten minutes a day at his desk, and most of it in a drunken snooze. I wondered what ugly twist of fate had caused him to be awake and sober now.
“But I’m a softhearted man,” Pomeroy went on, “and it would pain me to have to dismiss you right before Christmas.” (And I believed that as much as I believed in Santa Claus.) “So I’m just going to dock ten dollars from your salary this week, and disallow your lunch hour tomorrow. That’s more than equitable, wouldn’t you agree?” His cocky smirk dared me to protest.
“Fair enough, sir,” I said, standing tall as a tree, looking him straight in the eye, refusing to let him-or any of my gawking coworkers-see me squirm. I’d do all my squirming later, when I was alone-when I could moan and wail about how I was going to pay all my bills, and purchase Christmas presents, and take Elsie Londergan out to dinner, in private.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” Pomeroy said with a sniff. “Now take off your coat and get to work. Mike’s new story needs editing.”
What he meant was rewritten. Mike’s lousy stories always had to be rewritten. By me, of course-which was the real reason Pomeroy didn’t fire me. Without me (or somebody else with a halfway literate brain), Pomeroy might actually have to do some of the editorial work himself. Which would put a serious crimp in his afternoon napping activities.
“Yes, sir,” I said, hanging up my hat and coat, then beginning the short but endlessly humiliating walk to my desk. Halfway there, I stopped dead in my tracks for a second-just long enough to throw an imaginary pie in Pomeroy’s smirking face. I made sure the pie was made of soap suds and sawdust, so it couldn’t possibly taste good. Even in my most feverish fantasies, I’m a stickler for details.
THE MINUTE I GOT OFF WORK I WENT TO Chockful O’Nuts. I was so hungry I thought I was going to die. A woman can’t live without lunch, you know. No lunch yesterday, no lunch today, and no lunch hour tomorrow. The Case of the Missing Lunch! I had to figure out a way to solve this one, or I’d wind up playing the title role in the soon to be released sequel-The Case of the Walking Skeleton.
I sat on a stool at the crowded counter and ordered the same thing I always order when I’m at Chockful-cream cheese on datenut bread and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Chockful has the best soup in the world. Even better than Campbell ’s.
When I finished eating I hit the subways again. West on the shuttle, south on the IRT. I was dying to go home and tell Abby about everything that was happening (and have a cocktail or two-okay, three), but instead of going all the way down to Christopher Street-the subway stop closest to my apartment-I followed a sudden urgent impulse and got off at 34th Street, the stop for Macy’s. Christmas was just four days away, you see, and though I’d already sent a box of gifts home to my family in Kansas City, I still had three presents to buy: one for Abby, one for Lenny, and one for Dan. And while I was there, I figured, I might as well pay a little visit to the lingerie department-Judy Catcher’s department.
The sidewalks around Macy’s were snowless. So many people had been walking in and out all day, and circling the store to look at the dazzling window displays, that even the cement was worn down. Ordinarily I would have taken the time to join the crowds of oooohing and aaaahing window gazers-to observe and admire the magical exhibits of mechanical angels, puppies, children, elves, and reindeer that Macy’s was so famous for-but tonight I had more important things to do: buy gifts for my friends, and try to solve a murder.
I entered the store, crammed myself into the crowded elevator, called my number out to the operator and headed up toward the seventh floor, wondering how many times Judy Catcher had stood in this same tiny wood-paneled box, rising toward the same destination. When the doors popped open, I squeezed my way out and approached the heavily decorated entry to the floor, trying to get my bearings. I looked for a sign saying Lingerie, but there was none. There were just tons of twinkling lights, dancing candy canes, and great high clouds of angel hair with little cherubs sitting around on top of them like babies at a picnic.
Music was coming from somewhere to my right. Choral music. A crisp, perky rendition of “Come All Ye Faithful.”
I wondered if the song was beckoning me to come to Bethlehem, or to the Lingerie department. Repelled by the grating sound, I turned left and began walking down a wide aisle thick with boughs of holly, sprigs of mistletoe, and herds of people in a hurry. I didn’t know where I was going, but I figured I’d run into the brassieres and underpants eventually. All roads lead to Rome. (Or is it Bethlehem?)
Unfortunately, the road was long. I had to fight my way through Women’s Robes, Women’s Nightgowns, and Women’s Hosiery before I reached the underwear zone. And-even more unfortunately-when I got there the real live Christmas carolers were there, too, looking every bit as robotic as the other mechanical holiday displays, singing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” in voices so loud and chirpy I wanted to pluck some angel hair off the lowest cloud and stuff it in my ears.
There were three salesladies working the Lingerie department, and I made a beeline for the youngest one-a plump, freckled redhead wearing a fuzzy white scoop-neck sweater and a wide green velvet ribbon tied around her neck in a bow. She was short and cute, and she looked to be about Judy’s age.
“Merry Christmas!” she piped as I lurched up to her counter. “May I help you?” She had big green eyes and a surprisingly throaty voice.
“I hope so,” I said. “I’m looking for a present for a friend of mine. Her favorite color is red and she loves sexy lingerie almost as much as the men she wears it for.”
The girl let out a husky giggle. “I think we have just the thing-a red bra, panties, and garter belt set. It’s a special Macy’s Christmas item.” (Sounded more like Frederick ’s of Hollywood to me.)
“Perfect,” I said. “May I see it?” I knew I couldn’t afford such an elaborate gift, but I decided to take a look anyway. And while I was at it, I figured, I could look for a good way to bring Judy Catcher’s name into the conversation.
“Sure. Come this way. We have the set on display.” The girl led me down to the far end of the counter, then pointed out the three red lace-trimmed items arranged on the middle shelf of the glass-topped showcase.