“Suppose I’d taken the Post instead?”
“If you’d picked up the Post,” she said, “I’d have picked up somebody else. But I was perfectly sure you’d turn out to be a Times kind of guy. What I told you that night was the truth. I’d been to an acting class, I’d just gotten off a bus, and I didn’t like the way it felt on the street. I never feel comfortable on the West Side, anyway. I know it’s as safe as anywhere else but it just doesn’t feel safe to me.”
“Then why do you live over here?”
“I don’t. I live on Seventy-eighth Street between First and Second.”
“Who lives at 304 West End?”
“Lucas Santangelo.”
“Alias Luke the boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“You wanted a New York Times kind of guy to walk you to Luke’s place. Why? To make him jealous?”
“I told you. I was scared to walk by myself.”
“And out of all the guys around—”
“Bernie,” she said, “look around, will you? And bear in mind that it was an hour later and in the middle of the week. There were fewer people out and most of them looked like…well, like that panhandler over there, and those two creeps in army jackets, and—”
“I see what you mean.”
“I left some clothes at Luke’s,” she said, “and I’d been calling him for a couple of days, trying to make arrangements to get my stuff back. But all I ever got was his machine. That didn’t necessarily mean he was out, because sometimes he’ll let the machine pick up and wait until he knows who it is before answering. So I finally decided to go over there. If he was home, maybe he’d be enough of a gentleman to let me have my things.”
“And if he wasn’t home?”
“Maybe I could get in anyway. Most of the time he doesn’t bother to double-lock his door. I thought I might be able to open it with a credit card.”
“That’s not always as easy as they make it look on television.”
“Now he tells me,” she said, clapping her hand theatrically to her forehead. “It turned out to be impossible. I tried all three of my credit cards, and then I tried my ATM card, and that was a mistake because I must have crimped it a little. When I tried to get cash yesterday morning, the machine ate my card.”
“Bummer.”
“They gave me a new card. It was an inconvenience, that’s all. Believe me, it was more frustrating standing in front of Luke’s door with no way to get in. Why did I have to throw the keys? Why couldn’t I have thrown an ashtray instead?”
“Or a tantrum. After you gave up trying to open the door, then what did you do?”
“I went home.”
“Straight home?”
“Absolutely. I said good night to Eddie and off I went.”
“Who walked you to the bus stop?”
“Nobody. I took a cab.”
“Why didn’t you take one in the first place?”
“I did.”
“I thought you said you took a bus.”
“I telescoped things a little. I took a bus home from acting class, and I tried Luke’s number and got his machine again, and then I changed clothes to look ultrarespectable and took a cab from my apartment right through the park. I got off right in front of Luke’s building and had the doorman ring his apartment. There was no answer. ‘Well, I’ll just go on up,’ I said, but he wouldn’t let me.”
“Eddie stopped you? I’m surprised he even noticed you were there.”
“He wasn’t there. I got there a few minutes after midnight because that’s when his shift starts, but he was running late. The fellow on duty was a young Haitian who’s a real stickler for the rules. And I don’t think he was too happy about having to stay late. He wouldn’t let me in the building, so I walked over to Broadway to get a cup of coffee—the other coffee shop closes at midnight—”
“I know.”
“—and I got a real creepy feeling on the way over there, as if someone was stalking me. I guess I was nervous about breaking into Luke’s apartment. Then you turned up and walked me to my door, or to Luke’s door, actually, and then I went in and then I came back out again and then I went home. The next day I found out Marty’s baseball cards were missing. ‘They even know who took them,’ he said. ‘The insolent son of a bitch called to brag about it and they were able to trace the call.’ I couldn’t believe Luke had been so stupid. And then I found out it was you.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t mean you were stupid. You had your own reasons for making the call, and why not make a joke out of it? You had no way of knowing Marty’s cards would turn out to be missing.”
“You’re right about that. I didn’t even know he had them in the first place.” We had been walking back toward West End as we talked, and when we reached the corner we turned uptown as if by pre-arrangement, heading toward 304. “The way you tell it,” I said, “there’s hardly any coincidence operating at all. Just that Eddie happened to be late for work, and Luke happened to be away from his apartment, and I happened to be the first guy to come along and pick up the Times.”
“That’s right.”
“I wish I knew how much of your story to believe. Is your name really Doll Cooper?”
“It is now, but you and I are the only people who know it. You gave me the name, remember? Before that I told you my name was Gwendolyn Cooper, and it is.”
“Can you prove it?”
She fished in her bag and produced a couple of plastic cards. “Here,” she said. “A brand-new ATM card from Chemical. It was Manufacturers Hanover before the merger, and I loved going to a bank that you could call Manny Hanny for short. And here, my Visa card. It got crimped, too. See that corner? I tried to straighten it out but I think I only made it worse. I guess it’ll be all right as long as I don’t put it in any machines.”
I gave the cards back to her. “You gave me the right name,” I said. “How come?”
“The same reason you told me your name. We were two ships passing in the night. What reason would I have to lie to you?” She grinned. “Besides, Bernie, I wanted you to be able to get in touch with me.
“How? You’re not in the phone book.”
“I certainly am. G Cooper on East Seventy-eighth Street.”
“But I wouldn’t know to look there, would I? Because I was somehow under the impression that you lived at 304 West End Avenue.”
“You could have called me at work.”
“Where, at Faber Faber?”
“Haber Haber,” she said, “and Crowell.”
“You don’t work there anymore, remember?”
“I sometimes get calls still at the office. They take messages for me. I said I was a paralegal because that’s a lot more impressive than being a receptionist, and since I’m not either one, well, why not pick the one that sounds good?”
“You could have said you were a lawyer.”
“I almost did,” she said, “but I was afraid that might put you off. Some people don’t like lawyers.”
“Really?”
“I know it’s hard to believe. Bernie, I fibbed a little, okay? At the beginning I treated it all as an acting exercise. Improv, you know? We do scenes like that all the time in class. But I wasn’t really lying, any more than you lied to me by not mentioning that you’re a burglar.”
We had stopped walking now, half a block from Number 304. She nodded meaningfully at the building. “Listen,” she said, “I’ve got a great idea. We could go there right now. I’m sure we can bluff our way past the doorman.”