“Yes, Daddy.”
“And don’t you worry,” I said.
“I won’t, Daddy.”
“Love you, honey.”
“Me, too,” she said, and hung up.
My partner Frank says that women know how to manipulate me.
I went out into the living room, turned on the light against the encroaching dusk, mixed myself a very strong, very dry martini, and then carried it back into the bathroom with me. I took two long swallows before I got into the shower, and drained the glass the minute I turned off the water. I was mixing myself another martini, a wet towel around my waist, when the front doorbell rang. I looked across the kitchen counter at the clock on the wall. A few minutes after seven. Terry Belmont.
“Just a second,” I said.
I went to the door and opened it.
“Oh my,” Terry said.
“I just got out of the shower,” I said. “I’ll get dressed, the bar’s—”
“don’t go to any trouble on my part,” she said.
“won’t take me a minute,” I said. “The bar’s right there, help yourself.”
“Where can I put this stuff?” she asked.
Her arms were laden with brown paper bags.
“Kitchen’s over there,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“I showered, too,” she said, and smiled.
I went into the bedroom, put on clean underwear, white ducks, a blue shirt I’d had tailor-made in Mexico for three dollars, and a pair of loafers. I went into the bathroom, combed my hair, and looked at myself in the mirror again. I still wasn’t a movie star. Terry was standing at the bar when I came back into the living room.
“What’s Stolichnaya?” she asked.
“Vodka,” I said. “Russian vodka.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, “it says so right here on the bottle.”
“Would you like some?”
“No, I don’t like vodka.”
“Well, what can I get you?”
“What are you drinking?”
“A martini.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” she said.
I started mixing the martini.
“Yell when You’re hungry,” she said. “All I have to do is heat it up.”
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want an olive in this or an onion?”
“What are you having?”
“A twist.”
“I’ll have a twist, too,” she said.
I cut a narrow slice of lemon peel, rubbed it around the rim of the glass, and dropped it in. I handed the glass to her.
“Thanks,” she said. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
We drank.
“Good,” she said. “I usually don’t drink martinis because they make me do funny things,” she said. “But what the hell.” She sipped at the drink again. “This is really very good,” she said. “You make a good martini.”
“Thank you.”
“So,” she said, “were you surprised that I called?”
“I was.”
“I don’t believe in standing on ceremony. But, boy, was I afraid some woman would answer the phone. I had it all figured out I would say I had the wrong number or something. You’ll notice I’m wearing green,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Remember I told you this morning that green—”
“Yes, I remember.”
“This is one of my favorite dresses, in fact,” she said. “Though my mother tells me it’s too tight. My mother’s a pain in the ass when it comes to telling me how I should dress, you’d think I was still ten years old or something. Did I tell you how old I am?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty-seven, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“And You’re thirty-eight, right?”
“Right.”
“Eleven years,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“The difference in our ages.”
“Right.”
“I got this dress up at Lucy’s Circle,” she said. “A place called Kitty Corner, do you know it?”
I knew it.
“Yes,” I said.
“They have sexy clothes there. Do you think it’s sexy? The dress, I mean.”
I looked at the dress more closely. It was fashioned of something that appeared to be silk but was probably a synthetic fabric. It was cut low over the breasts and slit to the thigh on the right leg. Her mother was right; it did seem a bit tight. Or at least a bit too clingy.
“it’s very sexy, yes,” I said.
“I like sexy clothes,” she said. “I mean, what the hell, if You’re a woman you should dress like one, don’t you think?”
“I would expect so.”
“I like the way you talk,” she said. “Am I too outspoken?”
“No.”
“I say What’s on my mind. That’s a bad failing, I guess.”
“Not necessarily.”
“That’s what I mean. About the way you talk. Somebody else would’ve said something else. Instead of ‘not necessarily.’ I don’t know what they would’ve said, somebody else, but it wouldn’t’ve been ‘not necessarily.’ Do you like chicken?”
“Yes.”
“I fried it myself. I hate what they give you at these take-out places. I made this myself, with my own two little hands — not that they’re what you’d call dainty or anything, my hands. Do you think I’m too big?”
“Big?”
“Yeah, you know. Big.”
“Well... no, you look fine,” I said.
“Oh, I know I look fine,” she said, “but am I too big?”
“How do you mean?”
“Guess how tall I am?”
“Five-nine.”
“Five-eleven,” she said, shaking her head.
“That’s tall.”
“Oh sure. Guess what I weigh?”
“I have no idea.”
“A hundred and thirty. Does that sound fat to you?”
“No.”
“My mother says I’m too fat. She means here, I think,” she said, and glanced down at her breasts. “I give a big impression all over, I guess. Lieutenant Hanscomb says I should join the force. As a cop, he means. In the office I’m civil service, a civilian employee, you know? He says I could knock any cheap thief on his ass in a minute, is what he thinks. He’s wrong, though. I’m not really very strong, I’m just big. How tall are you?”
“An even six feet,” I said.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “I shouldn’t’ve worn heels, right? You notice the shoes match the dress? But maybe I’ll be too tall for you with heels on. Come over here a minute,” she said, and stood up.
I walked to where she was standing.
“A little closer,” she said. “I won’t bite you.”
We stood facing each other.
“Yep, just a little bit too tall,” she said, looking into my eyes. “That’s ’cause the heels add three inches — well, what can you do, I like very high heels. Did you ever notice when a girl is wearing heels it lifts everything? I mean everything. Your breasts, your ass, they all get lifted when You’re wearing heels. Also, heels make you suck in your tummy, I don’t know why that is. Should I take them off? Does it make you feel uncomfortable or anything, my being a little bit taller than you with the heels on?”
“No, I don’t mind at all.”
“’Cause I’d rather leave them on, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Even later. I’d like to leave them on later, if That’s okay with you.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I like looking sexy,” she said, and smiled. “Are you getting hungry? Shall I heat up the chicken and stuff? Just say the word.”
“I think I’d like another drink first,” I said.
“Yes, me, too, please,” she said.
I mixed the drinks. I carried hers to where she was sitting.