“You mean you’re not coming in?”
“No,” I said, suddenly deciding to take the whole day off. “It’ll be better if I don’t show my face at all. That way you can tell them I called in sick, and they’ll all just have to accept it. This will be only the second sick day I’ve taken in all the time I’ve worked for Daring Detective, so I think I deserve a little leeway. I’ve earned it, right?”
Lenny was audibly exasperated. “Pull your fat head out of the sand, Paige!” he scolded. “Pomeroy won’t give you any rope, and you know it.”
“Maybe that’s just as well,” I said, trying to smile. “The way things have been going for me lately, I’d probably just hang myself with it.”
A SHOWER AND CLEAN CLOTHES LIFTED my spirits a bit. Terry Catcher’s mood, on the other hand, was sunk in a hangover of oceanic proportions.
“I should have been killed instead of Judy,” he moaned, rubbing his pale, handsome face with both hands, then raking his long, shaky fingers through his thick white hair with a vengeance. “I’m a coward, and a drunk, and no use to anybody on earth.” Terry was sitting, slumped over, on Abby’s little red couch, in the same spot and position he’d been in several minutes before, when I’d ventured next door to see how he and Abby were doing.
“Listen up, pretty boy,” Abby called from the kitchen. She was toasting bagels and stirring Tabasco into the three large Bloody Marys sitting on the counter. “You can forget that ‘no use to anybody’ crap right now. I’ve got a use for you, you dig? And you’re gonna love being used by me. I guarantee it.”
I laughed and sat down next to Terry on the couch. It felt good to be among friends. “And I’m really glad you’re still here, Terry,” I said, patting his poor, hunched-over back.
“Now you can tell me more about Judy and help me figure out the truth about what happened to her. I’ve made some headway in my investigation, but I still feel as though I’ve been locked in a windowless basement without a flashlight.”
“Well, I feel like I’m dying,” he croaked, slowly turning his head and looking at me-for the first time since I’d entered the apartment. His bright blue eyes were thoroughly outshone by the bright red rims of his lids. “What is a Mai Tai anyway?” he asked. “A mixture of arsenic and chloroform?”
I laughed again. “Abby’s known all over the Village for her dynamic cocktails. It’s rumored she laces them with gunpowder. ”
“I can assure you the only explosive I use is booze,” Abby said, walking over to the couch with a Bloody Mary in each hand, “and in this case it’s just a dinky little spritz of vodka.” She handed the drinks to us. “Bottoms up, kids! You’ll both feel better in no time. And when you’re able to walk, come on over to the table for bagels and coffee.” She turned and whisked back into the kitchen area.
Terry eyed his drink suspiciously. “Coffee sounds good,” he said, forcing himself-with a loud groan-to his feet, then wobbling-glass in hand-toward the kitchen. I took two big gulps of my firewater (Abby uses a lot of Tabasco), and followed him to the table.
FINALLY, AFTER THE BLOODY MARYS, bagels, and coffee had been consumed, we got around to discussing the murder. I told Terry and Abby about all my investigative excursions thus far: my little tea party with Elsie Londergan; my talk with Vicki Lee Bumstead at Macy’s and my follow-up phone conversation with her, when she told me about Gregory Smythe and said she’d try to get his address and phone number for me; my midnight jaunt to the Village Vanguard, where I’d met the cat with the dog and learned that his name was Jimmy Birmingham. I didn’t tell them that Jimmy had followed me home and, therefore, knew where I lived, because I didn’t want them to flip out and start worrying about me. (Okay, I also didn’t want them to know how incredibly stupid I’d been to allow-all right, cause-the whole thing to happen the way it did.)
“I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished so far,” Terry said, lighting a Pall Mall and taking a drag. Some color had returned to his lean, narrow face and his hands weren’t shaking anymore. “I’m so grateful to you, Paige. I just wish I could talk to Bob, tell him how swell you’ve been and how much you’re helping me.”
My soul shivered. I wished I could talk to Bob, too.
“What’s next on the agenda?” Abby asked, urging me onward as usual. Without taking a breath, she cried,
“You’ve got to find Gregory Smythe!” Like Edward R. Mur row, she liked to answer her own questions.
“I know, I know,” I said, sighing heavily. “I know what I have to do, but I’m not sure I have the energy to do it.”
Abby was unhappy with my lethargic response. “You’re not going to just sit around and wait for Dagwood’s sister to get Smythe’s address, are you? What if her friend in bookkeeping refuses to search the files? Then you’ll be up poop creek without a paddle!”
I smiled at her sanitized version of the cautionary cliché. It wasn’t often that Abby sanitized anything. “No, I’m not going to wait for Vicki. I have an alternate plan. But first,” I said, turning to look at Terry, “I was wondering if you ever heard of Gregory Smythe. Did Judy ever mention him, or bring him up in any of her letters?”
“No. This is the first I’ve heard of Smythe or Birmingham. Judy never told me about either of them. She used to write me about her boyfriends when I was in Korea, but after I came home and she moved to New York, she didn’t write very often. And when she did, all she talked about was her job. She was so proud to be working at Macy’s.” As Terry spoke of his sister, his voice grew soft and his face turned pale again.
“So what’s your alternate plan?” Abby badgered. “How are you going to track down Judy’s daddy-o? Are you going to ask Dan to help you?”
My heart flipped over at the mention of Dan’s name, but I pretended I hadn’t heard it. I didn’t want to think about (or have to explain) our recent romantic run-in. “I have a different scheme,” I said. “I’m going to pay a visit to Judy’s landlord today. According to Elsie Londergan, Gregory Smythe signed the lease on Judy’s apartment, so the agency’s sure to have his address. If not his home address, then at least his business address. And if I can get the landlord in a chatty mood, maybe he’ll have even more to reveal about the randy old coot’s living arrangements.”
“Do you know who the landlord is?” Abby asked.
“No, but you do, right?” My words were directed at Terry.
“Sure do!” Terry said, delighted to have some concrete information to offer. “His name is Roscoe Swift and his office is on 27th Street, right around the corner from Judy’s apartment. Chelsea Realty. Wait!” he said, jumping up from the table to grab a crumpled newspaper out of the duffle bag sitting on the floor near the couch. “The exact address is printed here, in the classifieds. I saw it yesterday.” He folded the newspaper open to a certain page and handed it to me. “See the item circled in ink? It’s an ad for Judy’s apartment. Swift’s already put it up for rent.”
I scanned the ad and, with Terry’s permission, tore it out of the paper. “Thanks,” I said, sticking the scrap of newsprint in the side pocket of my skirt and giving Terry a big grin of approval. “That’s all I need to know.”
“Maybe not, Paige,” Terry said, his proud smile fading to an uneasy frown. “Swift strikes me as a sleazy kind of guy. Slick and tricky. You may not get anything out of him but a fast runaround and a quick pat on the fanny. I’d better go with you.”