“The Susan Pomerance Gallery.”
“Duh,” Cooke said, and McGann asked what hours she was open. She told him, and added that she could certainly arrange a private appointment after hours if that would be more convenient. He said he wouldn’t want to put her to the trouble, sending a little message with his eyes, and she said it wouldn’t be any trouble, and sent the message right back to him.
And they were gone, and Jesus she was hot, and the bartender really did look awfully cute, but she didn’t intend to waste half the night waiting for him. She took a wee sip of her Cosmo, then turned to survey the room.
She looked, not for the first time, at the big man at the center table on the rear wall. She’d noticed him when he came in, noted with approval the athletic stride, the strong jawline, the don’t-care masculinity of his corduroy jacket and black jeans. But he was with a woman, and they were drinking champagne and talking a mile a minute, so she’d put him out of her mind.
Then the word filtered down the bar that he was John Creighton, John Blair Creighton, which made him the man who’d gone home with Marilyn Fairchild and strangled her. But that wasn’t the news, she learned. The news was that he’d just signed a book contract for over three million dollars.
She wouldn’t have recognized him, he’d had a beard in the photo that ran in the newspapers, but she could see now that it was the same face, the same strong presence.
She looked at him now, saw him moving his hands as he talked, and she could feel those hands on her body, taking hold of her, turning her, positioning her the way he wanted her. Taking her from behind, splitting her like a melon, his big hands gripping her shoulders, then moving to grip the sides of her head, then settling on her throat...
But he was with someone. Her eyes moved from him, and found those of a man a table away from Creighton. She’d seen him before and known he looked familiar, but now she was able to place him. And he was looking back at her.
She held his gaze, just for a moment, then turned for another sip of her drink.
Jim Galvin was saying something, but Fran Buckram had stopped paying attention when the two men at the bar left and the woman in the black dress remained behind. He watched her, trying to figure her out, and then she caught him, her eyes locking on his. It was such a damned cliché, eyes finding each other across a crowded room, but he felt something. Fifty-three years old (a youthful fifty-three, you could say, but when you used the word youthful it meant you had to) and he could feel it just the same, a stirring, a quiver of excitement.
He was on his feet without having consciously decided to get up. Jim had stopped in midsentence and was looking up expectantly, waiting for an explanation. Well, he’d have to wait.
He walked straight across the room to her, threading his way among tables, pulling himself up short to avoid bumping a waiter with a tray. She had turned away from him, she was facing forward, drinking her drink. He stood at her shoulder, close enough to breathe her perfume, and groped for an opening line.
“They’re not coming back,” she said, without raising her eyes from her glass. “Have a seat.”
“I’ve been sitting all night.”
She turned to him, smiled. “Me, too,” she said.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t really want another drink,” she said, and he felt rejected for an instant before she smiled again and extended her hand. “I’m Susan Pomerance.”
Her hand was warm and soft, her grip firm. “Fran Buckram.”
“I know. You were pointed out to me.”
“Oh?”
“Not tonight. Sometime last month, it must have been, in a French restaurant called—”
“L’Aiglon d’Or. You were with Maury Winters.”
“You know Maury? He’s a dear man.”
“Good lawyer, too.”
“And you remember me from just seeing me that night?”
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Except for when you weren’t there to be seen.”
“I dropped my earring.”
“I remember.”
“It took me a while to find it. Of course it was dark there.”
“It must have been.”
“And there were diversions. You’re a very attractive man.”
“You’re a beautiful woman.”
“Thank you, Fran. Do they ever call you Franny?”
“No.”
“I might. Would that upset you?”
“No.”
“Turn toward me more. And stand closer. Now put your hand under my dress. Go ahead, nobody can see. Yes, that’s right. What are you thinking?”
“That your barber’s a lucky man.”
“Oh, thank God. You’re witty. I’d fuck you even if you weren’t, but this way it’s so much nicer.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“First make me come.”
“I’ll make you come later.”
“You’ll make me come all night long, but I don’t want to wait. Do me now, with your fingers. That’s right.”
She sat perfectly still, she didn’t move, and her face didn’t change expression. Her eyes held his, and when he felt a trembling in her loins she caught her breath almost imperceptibly, and something changed in her eyes.
After a moment she said, “That was lovely. Franny? You were the police commissioner. You’re used to being in charge, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t been commissioner in a long time.”
“But you’re still used to being in charge.”
“I guess so.”
“Tonight,” she said, “I’m in charge.”
“All right.”
“No,” she said firmly, “I’m in charge. We do what I say. If you want to come home with me, those are the rules.”
“Fair enough.”
“You have to promise.”
“I promise.”
She looked at him as if to determine what his word was worth, and nodded shortly.
“Wait for me outside.”
“I have to take care of the check.”
“Go ahead, and then wait for me outside.”
Back at the table, he palmed two fifties to Jim Galvin and asked him to take care of the check. Galvin was saying something, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard, clapped the man on the shoulder, and headed for the door. Stelli caught him on the way out, told him not to be a stranger, presented her fleshy face for a kiss.
He turned at the door, and saw her walking toward his table. Had Galvin called her over? But no, Galvin didn’t even see her, he was holding his glass of whiskey and looking into it as if it were a crystal ball. And Susan Pomerance wasn’t going to that table anyway, she was going toward John Creighton’s.
Or for all he knew she was looking for the ladies’ room, because someone stood and blocked his view, and what was he standing there for, anyway?
He went outside and stood on the sidewalk in front of a shop that sold mineral specimens and semiprecious stones. He wondered if she’d come out, wondered if he’d get to go home with her. Wondered what in the hell he was getting himself into.
I don’t want to wait. Do me now, with your fingers.
Wherever it went, he thought, it had to be more fun than running for mayor.
Roz was saying that she’d felt all along they were better off with Crown. “Now we don’t have to fight with them over those two backlist titles. As a matter of fact, they’re going back to press on both of them. They’ll be back in print by September. By John Blair Creighton, this time around.”
“If they promote the new book right—”
“Honey,” she said, “they’ll have no choice, not with what they’re spending already. And it’s gonna be easier to sell than umbrellas in a shit storm. Oh, I was shameless hustling this one, John, but it’s easy when you’ve got something good to sell. Imagine if OJ could write like Faulkner, I told them.”