Pardon My Body (13 page)

I went down with her onto one knee. The way I had once before. I remembered it. I would always remember it. That was why I was crying.

Cass sat on his heels beside us, his long arms dangling over his knees.

“I followed you,” he said. “I didn't know…until I heard what she said. I was outside.”

“She was going to kill you,” I said. “Just like she meant to kill me.”

His voice was very soft. “I know,” he said. “I could of winged her. You know that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know. Thanks for not doing that.”

“At the very least she would have got life in a women's jail. Better this way out. Now it's all over. You don't have to spend the long nights thinking about her dying by inches in a lifer pen.”

I nodded.

But I didn't think sleep was going to come easy for a little while.

 

My head didn't ache any more. I didn't seem to feel anything anymore. For once I didn't want to drink. Not whisky. I wanted black coffee and cigarettes. I put the percolator on in my kitchenette and dragged on a Lucky.

It was 3:00 a.m. and I didn't think the telephone
would ring. It did. I turned the gas to a low flame under the coffee and walked back into my lounge.

“Hallo, Dale.” It was deep and rounded yet soft and sultry and it made you think of bedroom eyes if that was the way you thought. I didn't have those thoughts. To hell with women.

“Hallo…Louella,” I said.

“I've left Long Island. I don't want to see it again. That chapter is ended. I've taken an apartment.”

I hadn't meant to ask her where it was because I had thought to hell with women but I did and she told me. It was a ten-minute walk.

She said, “I called up a few oldtime theater friends and threw a party tonight. But it wasn't the same. You can't reopen chapters, either. I've sent them all home. I'm…I'm lonely.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm lonely, too. I'm going to be very lonely for a long time.”

Her voice quickened a little. “Come over, Dale. We can be lonely together.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Two lonely people.”

“Well?” The way she said that word is something I can't tell you.

“Make some black coffee,” I said.

I went back into the kitchenette and turned off the gas. I got my hat and coat and rode down in the
elevator. It was a lovely clear night. All the rain had gone and a million stars shone down on Manhattan. The air was fresh and clean.

Somehow I didn't feel troubled about what I was doing. I knew
she
would understand.