Offering Jimmy and Otto one last apology (which, as far as I could tell, went unheeded by them both), I plunked fifteen cents down on the table (a dime for the untouched coffee, a nickel for the tip), and shoved my arms into the sleeves of my coat. Then I grabbed my purse and gloves, plopped my hat on my head, jumped to my feet, propelled myself to the door, and made a hasty (okay, hell-bent) departure.
Chapter 13
AS SOON AS I HIT THE SIDEWALK I TOOK off running. Well, skating was more like it, since the pavement was so slippery and treacherous in places, but whatever you call it, I was moving as fast as I could. I wanted to put some distance between myself and the Village Vanguard before the oh-so-cool and cerebral jazz and poetry lovers formed a bloodthirsty mob and came charging after me.
And I was desperate to get back home-to be warm and safe behind the locked doors of my apartment, one full floor above the dirty snowbanks and icy sidewalks, hidden away from all cold-blooded killers.
I was the only pedestrian on the street, which really gave me the creeps. I mean, a New York City-dweller such as myself is practically never, ever, ever on a Manhattan avenue all alone. It was so dark-and so quiet. Except for the sporadic whoosh of a passing car or taxicab, all I could hear were the echoing sounds of my snowboots scraping the sidewalk, and the rumbling thunder of my own ragged breath.
Right after I crossed Charles Street, however, I started hearing something else. Something that sounded like footsteps (and I don’t mean my own). The sounds were coming from pretty far behind me-at least a block away-and every time I stopped to listen, the sounds stopped, too. I kept turning around to see if anybody was there, but nobody was. Nobody that I could see, anyway. I tried to ignore the faint but persistent noises and continue my homeward trek with a stout heart, but it was no use. I felt that someone was following me-no, I knew that someone was following me-and I flew into a panic only Alfred Hitchcock would understand.
And then something wild-something kind of supernatur a l -happened. A dreadful force invaded my lower limbs, and they became hot as fire, and they began to spin around in my hip sockets like the spokes of fast-turning wheels-like the whirling legs of that crazy bird in the Road Runner cartoons. (Well, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but it’s exactly the way I felt!) I streaked down Seventh Avenue so fast I must have been invisible. I whipped around the corner onto Bleecker like a racecar without any brakes. I unlocked the door to my building and zoomed up the stairs in a blinding flash. And then I opened my apartment and fell inside, without-miracle of all miracles!-Abby hearing me and making one of her dramatic appearances.
Best of all, I had left the wily coyote who was following me in the dust. (At least I thought I had.)
After locking my front door and closing the living room window shades-and checking to see that the diamonds were still nestled in their Quaker bed (they were)-I shed all my outerwear and left it in a pile in the kitchen. Then I dragged my pitiful body up the stairs to m y bedroom. Every ounce of my superhuman strength had flown. I was a puppet without any strings. All I wanted to do was get out of my clothes, wash the gooky eye makeup off my face, bundle my tired bones in one of Bob’s old Army T-shirts, and burrow between the covers.
I might have accomplished this goal, too, if the shade of my bedroom window hadn’t been left open. Then I wouldn’t have had to walk across the room to close it, and I wouldn’t have looked out the window while I was pulling the shade down, and I wouldn’t have seen the suspicious figure lurking in the doorway of the laundromat directly across the street. And I certainly wouldn’t have leapt to one side of the window like an enormous, demented frog, or flattened myself against the wall like a pancake, or pried a tiny little peephole between the shade and the window frame, and stood peering down through that peephole at the man lurking in the laundromat doorway, until he emerged into the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp and began walking toward Sixth Avenue.
And then I never would have seen that the man had a beard, or that he carried a little dog wrapped in a plaid wool muffler in the crook of his arm. And I wouldn’t have come to the frightening realization that-even though I had successfully kept my name a secret from him-Jimmy Birmingham now knew exactly where I lived.
So then I might have gotten into bed and gone to sleep like a normal person, instead of pacing around my apartment for the rest of the night, from the kitchen to the living room and back, again and again, drinking a jillion Dr. Peppers out of the bottle and filling every ashtray I owned to the brim with squashed cigarette stubs.
WHEN I CAME OUT OF MY SUGAR- AND smoke-induced stupor it was nine-thirty in the morning, and I was flopped out in a crumpled heap on my living room daybed (a weird but very modern-looking contraption I made myself from an old wooden door, a set of six wooden screw-on legs, and a single-bed mattress tucked into an orange madras bedspread. Poverty is the mother of invention!). I was still dressed in my black skirt, black scoop-neck sweater, and black stockings, and my eyelids were spackled shut with several thick, crumbling layers of black mascara.
When I finally pried them open and took a look at the clock on the table next to the phone, I saw that I was an hour late for work.
Groaning loudly and pulling myself to a seated position, I fell back against the couch cushions (or, rather, the pillows I keep piled against the wall to make the daybed look like a couch), wondering what evil stroke of fate had determined that I should have to work like a slave for a living, and still live like a slave in the process. Madly searching my addled brain for a good excuse for being late, I finally picked up the phone and dialed the office, hoping against hope that Mr. Crockett was in a forgiving mood.
When Lenny answered, I was so relieved I almost kissed the mouthpiece.
“Zimmerman!” I said, exhaling loudly. “Thank God it’s you. I’m so late it isn’t funny. I just woke up and I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” he sputtered, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Stop working on whatever ghoulish story you’ve gotten yourself involved in, and start paying attention to your real job. Otherwise, you’re gonna lose it.” His critical tone reminded me of the way my mother used to sound, when I would come home way past my curfew, or forget to clean up my room.
“Is Mr. Crockett upset? Did he say anything to you?” I wasn’t worried about Brandon Pomeroy because I knew he wouldn’t be in for another two hours at least.
“Crockett hasn’t come in yet. There was some kind of emergency at the typesetter.”
“Really?” I cried, stifling a loud wahoooo! “I don’t believe it! How lucky can a girl get?”
“Not very,” Lenny said, dropping his voice even lower, cupping his hand over his mouth and around the receiver (at least that’s what it sounded like he was doing). “Mike and Mario arrived right on time this morning, and they’ve been having unholy seizures because the mail isn’t sorted and the coffee isn’t made. Mario’s so furious he said he was going to call Mr. Crockett at the typesetter and tell him you didn’t show up.”
“What an unspeakable creep he is!” I said, wiping chunks of mascara out of my eyes and nervously lighting up another cigarette. It made me gag, so I put it out right away. “You’ve got to cover for me, Lenny,” I pleaded. “Tell them I was trampled by an elephant or something.”