SEVEN
'Morning.'
'Morning,' Rosie replied, rubbing her eyes wearily as she emerged from the bedroom.
'Sleep well?' Bernard asked.
'Great, thanks. I haven't slept that well in ages.'
'That's good.' Bernard slipped on his leather jacket. 'I have to rush. There's food in the fridge. Help yourself. I've left twenty dollars on the kitchen table. Buy something for dinner.'
'Do you have special food?' she asked hesitantly.
'Halal, you mean? No, I'm not a Muslim. I'm supposed to be Catholic but I renounced the faith after my father died. Get anything, pizzas, burgers, whatever you like.'
'What time will you be back?'
'You know what these business meetings are like. They can go on for ever. I hope to be back by six.' Bernard opened the front door then looked back at her. 'The money's for food, not dope. If the police catch you near another dealer they'll throw the book at you.'
'I know,' she replied.
Til score us some dope, O K?'
'O K,' she replied with a grin. 'Marc?'
'Yes?'
'Thanks for everything.'
Bernard winked at her then left the flat and closed the door behind him.
Rosie fixed herself breakfast then changed out of thp baggy white T-shirt Bernard had lent her into her jeans and the light blue shirt he had left out for her. She rolled up the sleeves then went back into the kitchen to make herself another cup of coffee. She sat down at the table and held the cup in both hands as she thought about the previous evening.
He had taken her to a steakhouse after they had left the Rollercoaster and ordered her the biggest T-bone steak she had ever seen. She had been ravenous, not having eaten properly for thirty-six hours, and managed to clear the plate and still have room for an icecream. Then, after scoring from a dealer outside Bryant Park, he had taken her back to the flat. They had talked for hours. Well, she had. He had listened patiently as she bared her soul. It was like unloading a great burden from her shoulders. She had felt completely relaxed in his company. He reminded her of C. W. Two gentlemen. C.W. was the only other person she could talk to in times of trouble. She knew C.W. would have chastised her for going off with a strange man. But it wasn't as if she did it all the time. In fact, it was the first time it had ever happened. And she wouldn't have done it if she had felt the slightest doubt about him. And her instincts had been proved right. She wondered if C.W. would understand? She would phone him. He could pass a message on to her parents…
Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the doorbell. Her initial reaction was that Marc had come back for something. He'd probably forgotten his keys. Her mother did it all the time. She put the cup down on the table and was about to get up when another thought struck her. It could also be the police. What if they had traced her to the flat? But how? And anyway, the flat was in Murray Hill, nowhere near Times Square. She wasn't violating her parole conditions. What about last night?¯She had been in Times Square. Had they received a tip-off? Who from? Kenny? But he didn't know where she was.
The doorbell rang again. She stood up and walked to the front door. She opened it on the chain.
'Rosie?' a voice called out.
'Kenny?' she replied, peering through the narrow aperture at him.
'Can I come in, or are we going to talk like this?'
She unhooked the chain and opened the door. 'How did you know I was here?'
'I had you followed from the Rollercoaster,' Doyle replied and immediately pushed his hands against the door when Rosie tried to slam it in his face. 'I did it because I was worried about you.'
'So you had someone spy on me,' she snapped, still trying to force the door closed. 'Go away, Kenny. Go away and leave me alone.'
'Rosie, I just want to talk to you. Please.'
'No!' she screamed. 'Go away.'
'You carry on yelling like that and one of the neighbours will call the police. Is that what you want?'
She stopped pushing on the door. 'OK, say what you've come to say then get out. I can't believe you're acting like this, Kenny. We used to be friends.'
'We still are.'
'Think again,' she snapped back.
'Rosie, there's something about this guy that isn't right.'
'You're not starting that again?'
'I'm worried about you, for Christ's sake. The guy saved your butt last night, granted. But there was no need for you to throw yourself at him like you did.'
'Throw myself at him?' she retorted in amazement.
'That's exactly what you did, and you know it. You couldn't take your eyes off him. You live in a fantasy world, you know that?' Doyle shook his head slowly. 'Open your eyes, Rosie. This is the real world. You're shacking up with — '
Rosie slapped him across the face. 'I'm not shacking up with him! He hasn't touched me since we met.'
Doyle dabbed the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His lip was bleeding. 'I've tried my best. You just won't come out your fantasy world, will you? But you'll learn. And it'll be the hard way. I'll see you around. Take care of yourself.'
Rosie watched Doyle disappear into the lift then wiped a tear from her,cheek. Why had she hit him? She had never hit anyone before in her life. And he was her best friend. She knew he was only trying to protect her. He had always been the big brother she never had. But why couldn't he understand that she needed her own freedom, a freedom to pick and choose her own friends? She so wanted him to like Marc. But now she knew that would never happen. He would be there for her when Marc was gone. He was always there for her. That's what made him so special. Then they could talk again. But until then she would stay away from the Rollercoaster, far away.
She closed the door and went back to the kitchen where she finished her coffee. After washing up she went through to the lounge and picked up the newspaper Bernard had been reading. The front page carried the story about the attempted assassination of Jamel Mobuto outside the United Nations Plaza. She didn't bother reading it. She wasn't interested in politics. She paged through the newspaper, found nothing of interest, and tossed it onto the coffee table in the middle of the room. She glanced at her watch. Nine fifty-five. She wasn't going to sit around the flat all day. Hell, there wasn't even a television set. She went back to the kitchen and was about to pocket the twenty dollars when she thought better of it and left it on the table. She would only use it for food. She turned out her pockets. She had six dollars and a few cents. It would be enough for a sandwich at lunchtime. She stuffed the money back into her pocket then picked up the spare key from the table in the hall and left the flat.
Doyle watched Rosie leave the building from the seclusion of a doorway on the opposite side of the street. He waited until she had disappeared from sight then crossed the road and mounted the steps leading up to the glass doors. He glanced around quickly then entered the foyer. It was deserted. He took the lift to the third floor and walked the short distance to the flat. He looked around again and, satisfied he was alone, removed a credit card from his wallet and slipped it carefully between the door and the jamb. He eased it against the lock and prised it back gently until he felt the door give under his sustained pressure.
After a quick perusal he pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it silently behind him. He looked into the room nearest the front door, the lounge. The second door led into a bedroom. The bed was unmade. The T-shirt Rosie had been wearing the previous night lay crumpled in the corner.
He tried the adjoining door. It also led into a bedroom. The bed had been made with military precision. He moved to the wardrobe and tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it. The clothes had been ironed then folded with meticulous care before being stacked neatly on the shelves. He unhooked the second door and opened it. Two pairs of jeans hung beside a pair of black flannels and a grey chintz jacket. He crouched down and unzipped the grey holdall at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was empty. He was about to zip it up when he noticed the black attache case pushed up against the back of the wardrobe.