I watched her come in and take the key out of the lock and store it back in her purse and close the door behind her. I watched while reality rearranged itself so that she formed its center, and I felt my breath go in and out more clearly, as if the air had turned to oxygen.
"You're like a breath of spring," I said. "A whole new thing has happened."
She put her purse down and her overnight bag, and smiled at me and said, "Shall I undress right here, or would you like to sip champagne and talk of the Big Apple, first?"
"Undressing is good," I said.
"Fine," she said, and began to unbutton her jacket. "Feel free to whistle `Night Train."'
"Whistling is a little beyond me right now," I said. "Maybe I should just undress."
"Race you," she said.
Then she was naked, wearing only the ankle chain that she always wore because I'd given it to her when we came back from Idaho last year. And we were hugging one another and then we were on the couch.
"How was New York," she said very softly, her lips moving against mine.
"Helluva town," I murmured. "The Bronx is up and the Battery's down."
"You seem very like The Bronx," she said, and pressed her mouth against mine and we didn't talk much for a while.
12
"So," Susan said, "what progress with April?"
We were still undressed, but we were sitting upright on the sofa now, drinking Chandon Blanc de Noirs from fluted glasses, our feet on the coffee table.
"Around none," I said. "There's something I don't like going on, but I don't know what it is."
"You must be used to that, by now," Susan said. She had her head resting against my shoulder. My left arm was around her.
"I've never learned to like it," I said. "I go see April and then when I go back she's gone, so I go see her pimp and somebody has obviously cleaned his clock and he won't say anything and he's scared to death and says I'm going to get us both killed. So I leave him and go see Ginger Buckey and she's not on the streets."
"Maybe the women are simply busy at their work."
"Maybe. But who beat up Rambeaux and why and what have I got to do with it?"
"You're sure it was because of you?"
"Yeah. Rambeaux was clear on that. His biggest sweat was to get me out of there and not be seen with me. He was so scared he couldn't sit straight."
Susan was tracing the mark on my chest where Sherry Spellman had shot me. Low down there was another mark and below that a mark where there had been a drain.
"God," Susan said, "you look like a scuffed shoe."
"But sinewy and desirable," I said.
"Of course." She sipped some champagne and leaned forward and got the bottle out of the ice bucket and poured some in her glass and poured some in my glass.
"What are you going to do now?" she said.
"I'll call Ginger Buckey," I said. "See if she knows anything about where April went."
"Why should she know?"
"It's not that she should," I said. "It's simply that she's all I have."
"And if she doesn't know?"
I shrugged and drank some champagne and my doorbell rang.
"We could ignore it," Susan said. I shook my head. Susan smiled.
"Of course we can't," she said. "It might be an orphan of the storm seeking shelter."
I got my pants on and took my gun off the counter and buzzed the caller in and looked through the peephole in the door. In a moment Frank Belson appeared on the other side.
"Balls," I said, and put the gun back on the counter.
"Balls?" Susan said.
"Frank Belson," I said. "I gotta let him in."
"Of course," Susan said, and got up and went into my bedroom and closed the door. I opened the front door and Belson came in. He glanced at Susan's clothing in a small pile on the living room floor and didn't change expression.
"You want some champagne?" I said.
"What else you got?" Belson said. He wore his summer straw with the big blue band and his seersucker suit, very recently pressed.
"Got some Black Bush a guy brought back to me from Ireland," I said.
His thin face softened slightly. He nodded. I went to the kitchen and poured the whiskey neat into a lowball glass and handed it to him. He took a sip and tipped his head back and let it slide down his throat. He smiled in a satisfied way.
"New York cops want to talk with you," he said.
"They looking for crime-stopper tips?" I said.
He shook his head and sipped the whiskey again. "They found a dead hooker with your card in her purse."
"Shit," I said.
"You know her?"
"Ginger Buckey," I said.
Belson nodded. "Detective second grade named Corsetti caught the squeal, found the card, called us to see if we knew you."
"She murdered?"
"You think they're going to call us on somebody hit by a cab in Queens?"
"No. How was she killed?"
"Gunshot, Corsetti didn't say much."
"Am I a suspect?"
Belson shook his head. "Naw, they just want to know if you got anything would help. I told them I knew you, I'd swing by and ask."
"I was looking for another whore, kid named April Kyle. Ginger Buckey had the same pimp and I asked her if she knew about April and she said no."
"What's the pimp's name?"
"Rambeaux," I said. "Robert Rambeaux, lives on Seventy-seventh Street." I gave him the number.
"Any thoughts on who done it?"
"No, but it's sour," I said. "I found April and then she disappeared. So I went to see Rambeaux and somebody had beat him up and scared him gray. He said I was going to get him killed. Then I went to ask Ginger Buckey some more questions and I couldn't find her and now she's dead."
"Anything else?" Belson said. He walked to my kitchen and poured another shot of whiskey.
"April worked out of a house called Tiger Lilies."
"Elegant," Belson said. He drank some whiskey and shook his head with respect. "New York ain't going to put people on overtime," he said. "Hookers get aced, you know."
"Tell them to check Rambeaux," I said.
"Sure," Belson said. "They sit around waiting for me to call and tell them what to do. They're grateful as hell when I do."
"Drink the Black Bush," I said.
"Sure, but not fast. It's a waste to drink it fast."
"Take the glass," I said. "Sip it in the car."
Belson grinned for the first time. "Okay," he said. He glanced at the tangle of clothes on the floor. "My love to Susan," he said.
13
Maine is much bigger than any of the other New England states and large stretches of it are, to put it kindly, rural. Lindell is more rural than most of Maine. If three people left, it would be more rural than the moon. The center of town appeared around a curve in a road that ran through scrub forest. There was a cinder block store with a green translucent plastic portico in front and two gas pumps. Next to it was a gray-shingled bungalow with a white sign out front that said in black letters LINDELL, MAINE, and below it U.S. POST OFFICE. Across the street was a bowling alley with a sign in the window that said Coors in red neon script. Beyond the three buildings the road continued its curve back into the scrub forest. Some years back there had been a timbering industry, but when the forest got depleted, the timber companies moved on while Lindell sat around and waited for the new trees to grow. I parked in front of the Lindell sign and went into the building. Half of it was post office, one window and a bank of post office boxes along the wall. The other half .of the building was the site of town government in Lindell. Town government appeared to be a fat woman in a shapeless dress sitting at a yellow pine table with two file cabinets behind her. I smiled at her. She nodded.