“What do you think? Will he bring her out?” Aoyama said, looking down at his shoes.
“Of course he’ll bring her out.”
Fitch’s car was parked nearby in front of the garden.
“When?”
“We’ve got fifteen minutes. If he doesn’t come out with her in fifteen minutes we go in.”
“Okay.” He lit another cigarette.
“It’s going to kill you.”
“What is?”
“Smoking like that.”
Aoyama didn’t answer him, he stared out the window. One-story four-room wooden houses that weren’t in such a bad state as the houses on Nightingale Lane stared back at him. Every now and then someone came out of a house to walk a dog, collect mail and a newspaper from a mailbox or stand on the porch and gaze up at the sky.
“It’s a sad place, Pigsville,” Aoyama observed, throwing his cigarette out the window.
It was five-thirty.
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” Shimura said. “Let’s go.” He got out of the car, waited for Aoyama to do the same, locked his door, then locked the door on the passenger side.
When they got to 4 Nightingale Lane they automatically went around the house to the back because making an entrance at the front door was out of character for them, and they always followed the guidelines of the Kawamura Agency. Shimura yawned before he grasped the door handle, he hadn’t slept very well the night before with Tomiko in town. Aoyama thought he was professionally dispassionate.
The back door wasn’t locked. Shimura gave it a gentle shove with his shoulder and pushed it all the way open with his foot. They went into the house, smelled the stale air, passed through the kitchen and into the hallway. A faint light sprayed out from the bathroom. It was the only light on in the house.
Shimura stood in front of Aoyama who peered over his shoulder at the bathroom door, looking down at the figure of Fitch sprawled on the floor unconscious or sound sleep. His feet in their polished shoes were pointing awkwardly south.
[ 76 ]
Angela didn’t wait for the elevator, she climbed the stairs slowly, feeling the smooth, worn-out carpet beneath her bare feet.
After Pohl let her into the building, he hurried to the bathroom to get dressed, tripped over a pair of shoes, and fumbled nervously with his clothes. He put on a T-shirt, buttoned his jeans. He had forgot that Violet was in his bed until he heard her voice shout at him from the bedroom.
“Who was it?” she said, her head propped up by a couple of pillows.
“What?”
“Who was at the door?”
“Nobody.” He straightened his hair in front of the mirror. “Fuck,” he said to himself. He searched the hamper for a pair of socks.
“What?”
“Nothing, please,” he pleaded. “I’ve got to get dressed.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I told you, nothing.”
“That’s exactly what you’ve told me — nothing.”
“Leave me the fuck alone.”
It just came out without prior consideration and Pohl was sorry the minute he’d heard himself say it.
“What did you say to me?”
Before he could answer her, Violet was out of bed and walking quickly on bare feet out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, and if she’d been wearing something she would’ve been rolling up her sleeves, but she wasn’t wearing anything, just her supple body marching toward him on strong slender legs, her nipples hard because they were out in the air from beneath the bedcovers, her hands clenched into fists ready for a fight.
A sock dropped from Pohl’s hand when he saw her coming. He hopped backward in the direction of the bathtub on the foot with a sock already on it while Violet advanced until she was standing right in front of him. He tripped, and he was falling backward through the shower curtain into the bathtub when she caught him by the wrists and pulled him out and upright.
“So much for your acrobatic skills,” she said with her teeth clenched.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, just don’t talk to me like that.”
She’d got herself into the same act and rhythm as Burnett had used when he played with her, and she liked it.
“Tough, aren’t you?” Pohl said.
He grabbed her bare shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. The doorbell rang. He searched the floor for the sock he’d dropped, found it, put it on and went to answer the door. Violet walked back to bed with her hips swaying only a little because she figured he wasn’t watching her.
Pohl unlocked the door, opened it as far as the chain allowed, and saw Angela standing in front of him with a tired expression on her face, out of breath from climbing the stairs. He shut the door on her, heard her mild voice say his name, then unhooked the chain to let her in. Even barefoot, she was a couple of inches taller than Pohl. She walked past him into the living room.
Pohl shut the door, locked it. He followed Angela into the living room. She looked around at everything in the room as if she’d never seen it before.
“You’ve been here a dozen times. What are you looking at?”
“Nothing. Something’s changed,” she said.
“Nothing’s changed.” He almost choked on what he’d said.
“Well, I want to talk to you about what’s been going on.”
“You’re worn out. Why don’t you sit down?”
She sat down in an armchair, stretched her legs out in front of her. “I’m thirsty.”
“What do you want to drink?”
“Water. A glass of water with plenty of ice.”
Pohl went into the kitchen. Angela stared at her feet, wiggled her toes, and saw the filth between them that came from walking barefoot on the street.
Pohl gave her a tall glass of ice water. She drank it down in one gulp.
“I’ve got to wash my feet, they’re disgusting.”
“You can use the tub.”
She stood up and gave the glass back to him.
“I’ll need a wash cloth.”
Pohl led the way to the bathroom, she followed him. He handed her a clean towel from the towel rack next to the sink.
“You can leave me alone, I’ll be right out.” She shut the bathroom door.
Pohl stood facing the door, scratched his head, coughed, thought of having a cigarette, then remembered Violet. The bedroom door was ajar, he opened it and went in. Violet was snug under the covers with her black hair spread out behind her head, resting on three white pillows. She held a magazine open in her hands, turning the pages slowly.
“Well, who is it?” she said, without looking up at him.
“A woman I’ve known for a long time.”
“You mean a girlfriend?”
“Not exactly.”
“An ex-girlfriend?”
“No.”
“What then?” She set the magazine down beside her and pulled the covers up to her chin.
“I can’t exactly say.”
“Why can’t you exactly say?” She imitated his voice. “What do you think I’m going to do, scratch your eyes out or something like in the movies? I’ve been around the block.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“What kind of remark is that?”
“Nothing, I didn’t mean anything.”
“I’m beginning to think you never mean anything you say.”
Pohl sat down on the edge of the bed, next to her.
“Listen, Violet—” He reached out and stroked her silky hair.
“Quit playing lovesick adolescent and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“You’re impossible, that’s what’s on my mind.”
“And don’t forget that’s exactly why you want to fuck me.”