I shook my head. "People are funny, how they need to make judgments on everybody else. I still live in the old neighborhood, don't I? No coconuts live in Southeast. I don't think so."
Macy agreed with that. "You're right, you're right. Not too many people understand how we grew up here, Alex. I was named after a damn department store. You believe that?"
"I do. I grew up here, Macy." We clinked our glasses and laughed.
"I guess I'm lucky my name isn't Bloomingdale."
A couple of times, I brought up dinner, but she was more comfortable sitting and talking. I know chef Ris Lacoste, and I love her cooking. I had my heart set on crab cakes garnished with her special slaw. But we drank another couple of glasses of wine, and then Macy started to get a little ahead of me with the wine orders.
"You sure you don't want to eat something?" I asked a little later.
"I think I already told you that I didn't," she said. Then she forced a smile. "I like what we're doing here, just talking, chilling. Don't you?"
I did like talking to Macy, but I hadn't eaten since breakfast and I needed to get some solid food in me pretty soon. I was hungering for some thick, luscious black bean soup. I glanced at my watch and saw it was already ten-thirty. I wondered what time 1789 stopped serving.
Macy began telling me about her marriages. Her first husband had been a bum and a loser; and the second, a younger man from Grenada, was even worse, she said. She was getting a little loud, and people at the bar were starting to notice us.
"So here I am, thirty-seven years old. I had to go back to work even though I didn't want to. I'm teaching freshmen, Alex. English composition, world lit. God knows, seniors are bad enough."
I was sure she had said that she liked teaching, but maybe I heard her wrong, or she was being sarcastic. I wasn't doing much talking anymore, just listening to her stories, and eventually Macy noticed. She put her hand over mine. She had the smoothest brown skin. "I'm sorry; I got carried away, Alex. I talk too much, don't I? So I've been told. I'm really sorry."
"We haven't seen each other in a long time. Lots to talk about."
She looked at me and she had such beautiful brown eyes. I was sorry that she'd been hurt in her marriages, hurt by love. It happens to the best of people sometimes. Macy was obviously still hurting.
"You do look great," she said. "And you listen pretty good for a man. That's important."
"You too, Macy. I like your stories."
Her hand was back on top of mine, her nails lightly grazing my skin. It felt nice, actually. There was nothing too subtle going on here. She let her tongue wet her upper lip, then she lightly bit down on the lower. I was finally starting to forget that I was hungry for the crab cakes and black bean soup at 1789. Macy was quietly staring into my eyes. We were both adults, unattached, and I was definitely attracted to a lot of things about her.
"My place isn't far, Alex," she said. "I don't usually do this. Come home with me. Just walk me home."
Her place was only ten blocks away, so I walked Macy there. She had a little trouble walking, and her speech was slurred. I put my arm around her, held her steady.
Macy's apartment was on the ground floor of a town house near the university. It was minimally furnished. The walls were painted pale green. Against one wall was a black lacquered upright piano. A framed magazine article about Rudy Crew caught my eye. The educator's words were set in large type: "Education is about the distribution of knowledge… and to whom we actually distribute this particular commodity is a major question in this country."
Macy and I held each other and cuddled for a moment on the living room couch. I liked her touch, the way she kissed. This wasn't right, though. I knew that I didn't want to be here. Not tonight, anyway. Macy wasn't at her best right now.
"Good man's hard to find," Macy said, drawing me close. She was still slurring her words a bit. "You have no idea, no idea. So hard out here. It's hell."
I did have some idea about how hard it was to find someone to be with, but I didn't pursue the point. Maybe some other time.
"Macy, I'm going to head home," I finally said. "I liked seeing you again. I liked it a lot."
"I expected as much! I knew it!" she exploded on me. "Just go, Alex. Go. I don't want to fucking see you again!"
Before the anger had welled in her eyes, I had seen something beautiful and nearly irresistible. Now it was gone again. Maybe she could get back in touch with it, maybe not. Then Macy started to cry, and I knew enough not to try and comfort her. I didn't want to be condescending.
I just left the apartment, with its beautiful piano and the wonderful quote from Rudy Crew. This woman wasn't right for me to be with. Not now, anyway.
Sad night.
A good woman is hard to find too, I wanted to tell Macy.
God, I hated dating.
Chapter 40
The night with Macy Francis kept bothering me for the next few days. It was like a sad song that played in my head. I hadn't expected it to turn out that way. I didn't like what I had seen, or felt. The look in Macy's eyes stayed with me: a terrible mixture of hurt, vulnerability, and anger that would be hard to soothe.
I grabbed Sampson on Wednesday night after work. We agreed to meet at the Mark for drinks. The bar was a couple of streets down from Fifth. Local hangout. Tin ceiling, wide-board pine floors, long, worn mahogany bar, ceiling fan turning lazily.
"Sugar, damn," Sampson said, when he arrived and found me sitting by myself, nursing a Foggy Bottom lager while studying the old Pabst clock on the wall. "You don't mind me saying, you look like shit, man. You sleeping all right? You still sleeping alone, aren't you?"
"Good to see you too," I said to him. "Sit down and have a beer."
Then Sampson wrapped one of his mammoth arms around me. He hugged me as if I were his little kid. "What the hell is going on with you?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Don't know exactly. The manhunt on the West Coast went real bad. I mean, it dried the hell up. There's no word on Betsey Cavalierre's murder either. Had a date the other night. Just about has me swearing off dating for the rest of my life."
Sampson nodded. "I know the words to that sad song." He ordered a Bud from the bartender, an ex-cop we both knew, Tommy DeFeo.
"The case I was working on in California ended real badly, John. The killers just disappeared. Thin air. So. How are you doing? You look good. For you."
He raised an index finger. Then he pointed it right between my eyes. "I always look good. It's a given. Don't try to change the subject on me. We're into something here."
"Oh hell, you know I don't like to talk about my troubles, John. So tell me about yours." I started to laugh. He didn't.
Sampson just looked at me, said nothing, waited me out.
"You'd probably make a decent shrink," I told him.
"Speaking of which, have you been to see the good Dr. Finally lately?" Adele Finally is my psychiatrist. Sampson has also seen her a couple of times. She helps. Both of us agree on that. We're fans of Adele.
"No, she's really pissed off at me. Says I'm not trying hard enough, says I won't embrace my own pain. Words to that effect."
Sampson nodded and smiled thinly. "So why is that?"
I made a face. "I didn't say that I agree with Adele."
I sipped my Foggy Bottom. It wasn't too bad, and I liked being loyal to a local brewer.
"When I tryto embrace the goddamn pain, I keep coming back to the conflict between the job and the life I think I want to lead. I missed another one of Damon's concerts while I was out in California. Stuff like that keeps happening."
Sampson punched my shoulder. "That's not the end of the world, you know. Damon knows you love his little ass. The young dude and I talk about it sometimes. He's over it. Now you get over it."
"Maybe it's just that I've worked on too many bad murder cases in the past few years. It's changing me."
Sampson nodded approval. He liked that answer. "Sounds like you're feeling a little burned-out."
"No. I'm feeling like I'm caught in a scary nightmare that won't go away. Too many coincidences whirling around me. The Mastermind howling my name, threatening me. I don't know how to make it all stop."
Sampson stared into my eyes. He locked into them. "Back there a little bit you said coincidences, sugar. You don't believein coincidences."
"That's what makes it so scary. If you want to know the truth, I think that someone really is after me, and they've been after me for a long time. Whoever it is, he's scarier than the vampires. I keep getting calls from somebody, John.
He calls me every day. Hardly misses a day. We can't trace the calls."
Sampson ran a hand across his forehead. "Now you're scaring me. Who would be stalking you? Who would dare to take on the Dragonslayer? Must be some kind of fool."
"Believe me," I said. "This is no fool."