The Devil Knows You're Dead (14 page)

“Yes?”

“Well, even if we’re not ready to live together, maybe I ought to think about getting out of here. It seems silly to go to the trouble of finding some interim place if we’re going to be looking for an apartment together, but I think it’s time I got the hell out.”

“Why the urgency?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh?”

After a moment she said, “I got a phone call today. One of my old regulars.”

“He didn’t know you’d retired?”

“He knew.”

“Oh?”

“He’s called a few times over the past year. To make sure this retirement hadn’t turned out to be a passing fancy.”

“I see.”

“It’s understandable. Somebody sells her ass for twenty years, then takes it off the market, you don’t assume it’s permanent.”

“I suppose.”

“A few times he called just to chat. So he said. Well, we knew each other for years, and it was a friendly relationship, so you don’t like to tell a guy like that to shit in his hat. But I don’t need chatty conversations with former johns, either, so I always managed to cut it short. No hard feelings, gotta go, ’bye.”

“Good.”

“Today he asked if he could come over. No, I said, you can’t. Just to talk, he said, because he’s going through something difficult and he needs to talk to somebody who really knows him. Which is bullshit, because I don’t. Really know him, I mean. So I said no, you can’t come over, I’m very sorry but that’s the way it is. I’ll pay you, he says. I’ll give you two hundred dollars, just let me come over and talk.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him no. I told him I wasn’t in the therapy business, either, and I told him not to call me anymore. He didn’t just want to talk. You probably figured that much out on your own.”

“Yes.”

“He figured once he got in the door he could get in the bedroom. He figured once I took money I’d do something to earn it. But it wasn’t really about sex, it was about power. He liked the idea of getting me to do something I didn’t want to do.”

“Who is he?”

“What’s the difference?”

“I could have a talk with him.”

“No, Matt. Absolutely not.”

“All right.”

“If I hear further from him, but I don’t think I will, not more than once every couple of months and I can live with that. No, I don’t need to be protected. Not from this particular jerk.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“But I think you should change your number.”

“When I move. New apartment, new phone number.”

“Both at once.”

“Right.”

I thought about it. I said, “Maybe we should start looking for a new place.”

“Or at least think about it. You’d prefer the neighborhood where you are now, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I’m used to it,” I said, “the same way you’re used to Turtle Bay. I’ve got certain restaurants and coffee shops I go to, and of course I’ve got my regular meetings. Mick’s joint is a short walk from me. So are Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall and most of the city’s theaters, not that we go all that often, but it’s nice to know they’re there.

“But it’s not the only part of town I like, or even my favorite in a lot of ways. I like the West Village, I like Chelsea, I like Gramercy Park.”

“Or farther downtown. SoHo, Tribeca.”

But those places had a history of their own. “Or a little farther up on the West Side,” I went on. “Say the West Seventies. I’d be an easy walk or a short bus ride from where I am now, so I could keep the hotel room as an office and still go to the same AA meetings. Now that I think about it, though, the possibilities are vast. We could live almost anywhere.”

“Not out of Manhattan, though.”

“No, definitely not.”

“Unless we move to Albuquerque.”

Shortly before Christmas I’d had a windfall; I took a case on a contingency basis and it paid off. When her school’s semester break came around after the first of the year we’d flown out to New Mexico and spent two weeks driving around the northern part of the state, much of it among the Indian pueblos. We’d both responded to the adobe architecture in Albuquerque and Santa Fe.

“We could have a whole house there,” I said, “with swirls and minarets and curved walls. And it wouldn’t matter where it was, because we’d have to drive everywhere anyway, and whatever neighborhood we picked would be safer and more comfortable than anywhere in New York.”

“Would you like to do that?”

“No.”

“Thank God,” she said, “because neither would I. The whole country’s full of places that are much nicer than New York and I wouldn’t want to live in any of them. And you’re the same way, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“It’s good we found each other. And if we start to yearn for the sight of adobe, we can always fly out to Albuquerque for a visit, can’t we?”

“Anytime we want,” I said. “It’s not going anywhere.”

IT must have been around midnight when we went to bed. An hour later I gave up on sleep and tiptoed out to the living room. There was a rack full of magazines and a bookcase full of books, and of course there was always the TV, but I was too restless to sit still. I got dressed and stood at the living-room window, looking at the red neon Pepsi-Cola sign across the river. New buildings had eclipsed much of her view since Elaine moved in, but you could still see the Pepsi ad. Would I miss it if we moved? Would she?

Downstairs the doorman nodded wordlessly, then returned his gaze to the middle distance. He was a young fellow, a recent immigrant from somewhere in the Arab world, and he always had a Walkman headset plugged into his ears. I’d assumed he was hooked on Top 40 radio until I found out one night that he listened relentlessly to self-improvement tapes that exhorted him to take charge of his life, boost his money-generating capacity, and lose weight and keep it off.

I walked down First Avenue, past the UN building, clear to Forty-second Street. There I turned right, walked a block, and headed back uptown on Second Avenue. I passed a few saloons, and while they did not call to me I cannot say I was entirely unaware of their appeal. I could have looked for Mick at Grogan’s, but if I found him it meant a late night, and even if we cut it short I’d be clear over on the West Side and not much inclined to come all the way back to East Fifty-first.

Living together would solve that problem. And bring what others in its place?

There’s an all-night coffee shop at the corner of Second and Forty-ninth. I took a seat at the counter and ordered a prune Danish and a glass of milk. Someone had left an early edition of the
Times
behind, and I started to read it but couldn’t keep my mind on what I was reading. Maybe I needed some self-improvement tapes.
Develop the Hidden Powers of Your Mind! Take Charge of Your Life
!

I didn’t need to develop any hidden powers. I had enough brain cells left to figure out what was going on.

Jan Keane had come back into my life, even as she was nearing the end of her own. She and I had almost lived together, had indeed been groping in that direction, and then the relationship had instead broken down, and we had lost each other.

And now Elaine and I were in a similar situation, and at a similar stage. I had space in her closet, a drawer in her dresser, and a side of her bed on which I slept several nights a week. Because this stage was transitional, because it was undefined and perhaps indefinable, everything had to be considered and assessed. Should I automatically put on Call Forwarding when I was going to be spending the night on East Fifty-first? Should I apologize fervently when I forgot to disconnect it afterward? Should we have a second line installed?

Or should we move? Should I keep my hotel room? Should we choose my neighborhood, or her neighborhood, or some piece of neutral ground?

Should we discuss it? Should we avoid discussing it?

Ordinarily all of this was tolerable enough, and sometimes even amusing. But Jan was dying, and that somehow cast a yellow shadow over everything.

I was afraid, of course. I was afraid that what had happened to one relationship would happen to another, and that one of these days I would come for my clothes, and leave my keys behind on the kitchen counter. I was afraid the shabby little hotel room I held on to like grim death would be my home for the rest of my life, that I’d be perched on the edge of my narrow bed in my underwear when Grim Death himself came calling. That they’d have to haul me out of there in a body bag.

Afraid things would fall apart, because they always do. Afraid it would all end badly, because it always does. And afraid, perhaps more than anything, that when all was said and done it would all turn out to have been my fault. Because, somewhere down inside, somewhere deep in the blood and bone, I believe it always is.

I drank my milk and went home, and this time the doorman greeted me by name and gave me a big smile. (
Remember Names and Faces! Let Your Smile Brighten the World
!) When I slipped into the bedroom Elaine stirred but did not awaken. I got into bed and lay alongside her in the darkness, feeling her warmth.

Sleep took me by surprise, and the next thing I knew I was dreaming that I was following a man and trying to catch a glimpse of his face. I tailed him over precarious catwalks and down endless staircases, and at last he turned, and he had a mirror for a face. When I sought a reflection in it, all that was shown to me was pure white light, blinding in its intensity. I wrenched myself awake, reached out to touch Elaine’s arm, and fell back asleep almost instantly.

When I awoke again it was nine o’clock and I was alone in the apartment. There was hot coffee in the kitchen. I had a cup, showered, dressed, and was pouring a second cup when she got back from the health club, announcing that it was a beautiful day outside. “Blue skies,” she said. “Canadian air. We give them acid rain, they give us fresh air and Leonard Cohen. What a deal.”

I called Lisa Holtzmann and hung up as usual when the machine answered. Elaine said, “Gimme. What’s her number?” She dialed it and winced when Holtzmann’s message played. Then she said, “Lisa, this is Elaine Mardell, we had a class together last semester at Hunter. I should have called ages ago, and I’m terribly sorry for what you’ve had to go through. I’m sure you’re busy, but could you call me as soon as you get a chance? It’s sort of important, and—oh, hi, Lisa. Yes, well, I thought you might be monitoring the machine because Matt called you half a dozen times and got the machine each time. He felt funny about leaving a message. Uh-huh. Sure.”

She asked some questions, said some traditionally sympathetic things. Then she said, “Well, why don’t I put Matt on? He’s right here. All right, and you and I’ll get together one of these days. Will you call me? Don’t forget. All right, hold on. Here’s Matt.”

I took the phone and said, “Matthew Scudder, Mrs. Holtzmann. I’m very sorry to disturb you. If this is a bad time to talk—”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “As a matter of fact—”

“Yes?”

“Actually, I was planning to call you, but I was putting it off. So I’m glad you called.”

“I wonder if I could see you.”

“When?”

“As soon as you’ve got the time available. Today, if that’s possible.”

“I have to meet someone for lunch,” she said. “And then I have appointments all afternoon.”

“How does tomorrow look?”

“I’m supposed to see someone from the insurance company at two tomorrow afternoon, but I don’t know how long that will take. Uh, do you have any free time this evening? Or don’t you like to make appointments after business hours?”

“My work sets its own hours,” I said. “Tonight would be fine, if you’re sure it’s convenient for you.”

“It’s perfectly convenient. Nine o’clock? Or is that too late?”

“It’s fine. I’ll come to your place at nine, unless I hear otherwise. I’ll give you my number in case you have to cancel.” I did, and added that she could call the hotel desk if she misplaced the number. “I’m at the Northwestern,” I said.

“Just down the street. Glenn told me a couple of times how he ran into you in the neighborhood. If
you
have to cancel, call and leave a message. I haven’t been picking up the phone until I know who it is. The kind of calls I’ve been getting—”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you? I couldn’t. Well. I’ll expect you at nine, Mr. Scudder. And thank you.”

I hung up and Elaine said, “I hope I wasn’t interfering. I just had this image of that poor girl sitting next to the phone, scared to pick it up because it might be another jerk calling from one of the supermarket tabloids. And I figured it wouldn’t be awkward for me to leave a message, and then when I spoke to her I could tell her to get in touch with you.”

“That was good thinking.”

“But maybe I should have asked you first.”

“You did fine. I’m going to be seeing her tonight.”

“Nine o’clock, you said.”

“Uh-huh. She said she’d been planning to call me.”

“She didn’t tell me that. What about, I wonder?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s one of the things I’ll have to find out.”

I went back to my hotel and turned off Call Forwarding. There must be a way to do that from a distance, but I’ve never been able to manage it. I never would have had Call Forwarding in the first place, but it had been a gift from a couple of computer hackers who’d invaded the phone-company computer system on my behalf. While they were in there, they’d arranged for me to get Call Forwarding without having to pay the monthly service charge. They also gave me free long-distance service by routing my long-distance calls through Sprint without telling Sprint’s billing system about it. (When I raised ethical objections, they asked me if defrauding the phone company was really going to trouble my conscience. So far I’m forced to admit that it hasn’t.)

I caught a noon meeting at the Y on West Sixty-third. The speaker was celebrating his ninety days, which is the minimum amount of sober time you have to have before you can lead a meeting. He was pleased as unspiked punch to be sober, and his qualification was giddily buoyant. During the break the woman sitting beside me said, “I was like that. Then when I fell off my pink cloud it shook the earth.”