"Is your sister still living on Rodman?" Carella asked, and showed her the page in his notebook where he'd jotted down Betsy Schumacher's address.
"Yes, that's her address," Lois said.
"When did you see her last?" Brown asked.
"Sunday. At the funeral."
"She went to the funeral?" Carella asked, surprised.
"Yes," Lois said. And then, wistfully, "Because she loved him, I guess."
"Nice view," the girl said.
"Yeah," Kling said.
They were standing at the single window in the room. In the near distance, the Calm's Point Bridge hurled its lights across
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the River Dix. Aside from the spectacular view of the bridge and the buildings on the opposite bank, there wasn't much else upon which to comment. Kling was renting what was euphemistically called a "studio" apartment. This made it sound as if an artist might live quite comfortably here, splashing paint on canvases or hurling clay at wire frames. Actually, the studio was a single small room with a kitchen the size of a closet and a bathroom tacked on as a seeming afterthought. There was a bed in the room, and a dresser, and an easy chair, and a television set and a lamp.
The girl's name was Melinda.
He had picked her up in a singles bar.
Almost the first thing she'd said to him was that she'd checked out negative for the AIDS virus. He felt this was promising. He told her that he did not have AIDS, either. Or herpes. Or any other sexually transmitted disease. She'd asked him whether he had any non-sexually transmitted diseases, and they'd both laughed. Now they were in his studio apartment admiring the view, neither of them laughing.
"Can I fix you a drink?" he asked.
"That might be very nice," she said. "What do you have?"
At the bar, she'd been drinking something called a Devil's Fling. She told him there were four different kinds of rum in it, and that it was creme de menthe that gave the drink its greenish tint and its faint whiff of brimstone. She said this with a grin. This was when he began thinking she might be interesting to take home. Sort of a sharp big-city-girl edge to her. Whiff of brimstone. He liked that. But he didn't have either creme de menthe or four different kinds of rum here in his magnificent studio apartment with its glorious view. All he had was scotch. Which, alone here on too many nights, he drank in the dark. He was not alone tonight. And somehow scotch seemed inadequate.
"Scotch?" he said tentatively.
"Uh-huh?"
"That's it," he said, and shrugged. "Scotch. But I can phone
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I down for anything you like. There's a liquor store right around the . . ."
"Scotch will be fine," she said. "On the rocks, please. With just a splash of soda."
"I don't think I have any soda."
"Water will be fine then. Just a splash, please."
He poured scotch for both of them, and dropped ice cubes into both glasses, and then let just a dribble of water from the tap splash into her glass. They clinked the glasses together in a silent toast, and then drank.
"Nice," she said, and smiled.
She had brown hair and brown eyes. Twenty-six or -seven years old, Kling guessed, around five-six or thereabouts, with a pert little figure and a secret little smile that made you think she knew things she wasn't sharing with you. He wondered what those things might be. He had not had another woman in this room since Eileen left him.
"Bet it looks even better in the dark," she said.
He looked at her.
"The view," she said.
Secret little smile on her mouth.
He went to the lamp, turned it off.
"There," she said.
Beyond the window, the bridge's span sparkled white against the night, dotted with red taillight flashes from the steady stream of traffic crossing to Calm's Point. He went to stand with her at the window, put his arms around her from behind. She lifted her head. He kissed her neck. She turned in his arms. Their lips met. His hands found her breasts. She caught her breath. And looked up at him. And smiled her secret smile.
"I'll only be a minute," she whispered, and moved out of his arms and toward the bathroom door, smiling again, over her shoulder this time. The door closed behind her. He heard water running in the sink. The only light in the room came from the bridge. He went to the bed and sat on the edge of it,
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looking through the window where the air conditioner hummed.
When the telephone rang, it startled him.
He picked up the receiver at once.
"Hello?" he said.
"Bert?" she said. "This is Eileen."
She could remember a telephone call a long time ago, when they were both strangers to each other. It had been difficult to make that call because she'd inadvertently offended him and she was calling to apologize, but it was more difficult to make this call tonight. She was not calling to apologize tonight, or perhaps she was, but either way she would have given anything in the world not to have to be making this call.
"Eileen?" he said.
Totally and completely surprised. It had been months and months.
"How are you?" she said.
She felt stupid. Absolutely stupid. Dumb and awkward and thoroughly idiotic.
"Eileen?" he said again.
"Is this a bad time for you?" she asked hopefully.
Looking for a reprieve. Call him back later or maybe not at all, once she'd had a chance to think this over. Damn Karin and her brilliant ideas.
"No, no," he said, "how are you?"
"Fine," she said. "Bert, the reason I'm calling . . ."
"Bert?" she heard someone say.
He must have covered the mouthpiece. Sudden silence on the other end of the line. There was someone with him. A woman? It had sounded like a woman.
Melinda was wearing only bikini panties and high-heeled pumps. She stood in partial silhouette just inside the bathroom door, her naked breasts larger than they'd seemed when she was fully dressed, the smile on her face again. "Do you have a toothbrush I can use?" she asked.
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I "Uh . . . yes," he said, his left hand covering the mouth-I piece, "there should be ... I think there's an unopened one I ... uh ... in the cabinet over the sink . . . there should be a I new one in there."
She glanced at the phone in his hand. Arched an eyebrow. Smiled again, secretly. Turned to show her pert little behind in the skimpy panties, posed there for a moment like Betty Grable in the famous World War II poster, and then closed the bathroom door again, blocking the wondrous sight of her from view. "Eileen?" he said.
"Yes, hi," she said, "is there someone with you?"
"No," he said.
"I thought I heard someone."
"The television set is on," he said.
"I thought I heard someone say your name."
"No, I'm alone here."
"Anyway, I'll make this short," she said. "Karin . . ."
"You don't have to make it short," he said.
"Karin thinks it might be a good idea if the three of us . . ."
"Karin?"
"Lefkowitz. My shrink."
"Oh. Right. How is she?"
"Fine. She thinks the three of us should get together sometime soon to talk things over, try to . . ."
"Okay. Whenever."
"Well, good, I was hoping you'd ... I usually see her on Mondays and Wednesdays, how about. . .?"
"Whenever."
"How about tomorrow then?"
"What time?"
"I've got a five o'clock ..."
"Fine."
". . . appointment, would that be all right with you?"
"Yes, that'd be fine."
"You know where her office is, don't you?"
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"Yes, I do."
"Headquarters Building, fifth floor."
"Yes."
"So I'll see you there at five tomorrow."
"I'll see you there," he said, and hesitated. "Been a long time."
"Yes, it has. Well, goodnight, Bert, I'll. . ."
"Maybe she can tell me what I did wrong," he said.