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Bridget’s sex light was off. I was trying to imagine what it would look like turned on and couldn’t.

“How’s the tantric exercise working out?”

She ordered a vodka, one from the top shelf. “It’s awesome. Thanks.”

“So, what’s what?”

Bridget squirmed and then looked into my eyes. I knew the look.
Can I trust him?

I says, “Bridget, you can trust me about as well as you can trust anybody. I’m a straight shooter, you know that much about me, and I have good energy flow between my head and my heart.”

So she says, “Tommy, I’m scared. Every time I open the door or step outside, I think someone will be waiting. Because of Huey. They’ll think I know something. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever?”

From her coat pocket came a folded piece of paper, blue with lines on it. She held it out. I took it. I had to figure Bridget was as good at faking interest with her clients as looking blank much of the rest of the time. Maybe she had to save that part of her for business.

I held up the paper before opening it. “How’d you get this?”

“Under the door.”

I unfolded the blue paper and my eyes went down to the bottom to see who it was from. It was signed his wife.

I can’t really tell you what it said, verbatim. Now there’s a good Scrabble word for you. The
v, m
, and
b
in the same word, which alone equal ten points. To spell it out it’s likely you’d need to use all seven tiles and score fifty bonus points. Get that across a triple space and we’re talking mega pointage.

Anyway, the letter was profane and, if I do say so, a little long for what it had to say, which was really just hostility directed at Bridget. The name Huey jumped out at me. It seemed Ariel had discovered her late husband’s dalliance and felt that this was somehow Bridget’s failing. There were threats, too. Threats to expose her, which I thought kind of laughable. Every male for blocks around knows when there’s a professional girl working the neighborhood, and it’s not like the cops didn’t know. A low-profile indie like this isn’t worth their time. On duty.

Another threat in there was physical. It had to do with a hammer, that’s all I’ll say.

I looked up. “Not a nice thing.”

Her eyes were tearing up. “It was a very mean thing to do. Like him coming to me was my idea, like I was stealing her man. You know, Tommy…” She paused to wipe away a tear. You’d think a girl like Bridget would be hard as nails, but it goes to show you everybody has an emotional center. “You know, Tommy, I probably save more marriages than I screw up, doing what I do. The men, if they didn’t come to me, would get a girlfriend who would take them away from their wives. It’s true. Girlfriends start out OK with the guy being married, then they want more, bloop bloop bloop.”

“I never thought of it that way.” I patted her arm. “It sucks when people project their negativity at you, especially so unfairly. I’m sorry. You worried about the threats?”

Bridget nodded, pressing a bar napkin into the corners of her eyes.

I laughed as softly as I could. “Babe, Ariel is just venting her emotions the only way she knows how. I wouldn’t worry. If she came to your door and confronted you, that would be something else. This is like e-mail or whatever online. People act out in ways they can’t in real life.”

“Still … what should I do?”

“Don’t do anything.”

“Should I go talk to her?”

I took her hand. “No. You hear me, no, do not under any circumstances go to the bistro and talk to her about this. It will only make things worse. If you get another letter, then I’ll maybe see if there’s something I can do, but for now, just let it go. You know, Bridget, that you’re a good person, and probably a better person than Ariel. So stay that way. Hold on to your good energy. The bad energy is Ariel’s, and you got to remember that part of the emotions that come with losing a husband is anger. This isn’t so much directed at you as at him.”

Her eyes looked hopeful. “You think so?”

“I know so. Very common for a wife to be angry at a husband for dying, and to look for reasons to be angry at him, too.”

She seemed to notice my luggage for the first time, and pointed. “Is that yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Going on a trip?”

“Sleeping somewhere away from home. The motel near the Battery Tunnel, I guess.”

“Why?”

“The guy who’s doing the shooting may have a bullet for me, so until the police find him—”

“Yuk. You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious. This guy may be—”

“I mean about the motel.”

I shrugged as an answer.

“Tommy, that place is foul. It’s a bump-and-thump.” Bump-and-thump is what they call a Motel No-tell in Brooklyn.

“Hopefully it’s just for one night. With two dead, it’s too dangerous to go back to my place.”

“Come home with me.”

I rubbed my jaw. “That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Why not?” Her feelings looked a little hurt, like she thought it was because of her business.

“If you ask me, people have the right to not wear seat belts, but I’m not crazy about sleeping in a place with cigarette smoke.”

“I don’t smoke at home, Tommy.” She registered the confusion on my face and added, “I don’t run my business out of my home. I live downstairs. I don’t smoke there, only at work. Comes with the territory.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.”

“You’d be doing me a favor, Tommy. I’m worried someone is going to come around about Huey. I have a futon for you.”

I had to think about that a moment, and did so as I sipped my brandy. Was I setting myself up for more trouble with a woman? There was no way I was going to be romantically involved with Bridget, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m pretty dumb that way, but not that dumb. The mole situation on her skin was a turnoff for me, just for starters. Just that here was a woman with a potential problem and I was about to allow myself to get mixed up with it. Then again, if someone did come after her, like the punk shooter, putting my hands on that person would go a long way to figuring out exactly what was going on and maybe how I could squeeze my fifteen grand out of this situation.

Staying in a bump-and-thump can be dangerous, too, and I wasn’t looking forward to staying there. Jealous boyfriends and husbands crashed in there about once a week, waking everybody up. Or at least waking the few people actually asleep. Also a bedbug scare was on in Brooklyn. Bugs crawling into my bed and sucking my blood in the night freaks me out.

So I said OK, and we walked with my bag back to the green loft. I kept my eyes open when we came close to her building, but there was just a couple people walking their dogs on Bond Street.

There was more than one door into the green loft, and this time we used one around the side. It had no bell buzzer at all, and no mail slot. I guess she liked her privacy and used a post office box for her mail.

Her apartment was completely different from the one upstairs at the other entrance. It was all Ethan Allen, with cream wall-to-wall carpet and English school oil paintings on the Sheetrock walls.

“Spare room is in back, and you can hang your stuff on the back of the bathroom door in there.” She hung up her red beret and long fuzzy scarf on an antique coatrack. “My bathroom is off that way, and the master bedroom.”

I walked the carpet back and found a very nice guest room, though it didn’t look finished. The white walls were freshly painted, and the futon bed looked temporary. It didn’t go with anything else in the apartment. The bathroom was basic and white.

Bridget appeared in the doorway. “Sorry, this part of the place isn’t really finished yet. I’m working on it.”

I took off my coat and draped it over the back of a rocking chair, the only other piece of furniture in the guest room. “Very nice place, Bridget. You’ve done a real nice job with it. Your landlord know about all this?”

“I own.”

I paused. “The whole factory?” Her apartment occupied only a small part of the building’s square footage, which had a footprint of maybe two hundred by one hundred feet and two floors.

“Uh huhn, through a holding company.” She smiled to herself. “I’m a speculator. When they finally rezone this area, I can sell and quit my job.”

Speculators had been buying up vacant industrial properties around the Gowanus and pushing for a zoning change to develop the area along the canal. True, the canal was kind of nasty, but it was waterfront property. There could be a marina if they cleaned it up a little. Only the scrap yard downstream was any kind of functioning business on the canal. All the other businesses—except I guess the telephone company yard—were defunct as far as I could tell.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tommy. The usual hooker story, right? Sits on a nest egg waiting to cash in and get out of the business.”

“Hold the phone, Bridget. If you and I are going to be friends, our chakras have to be in harmony. I wasn’t thinking anything like that. I was thinking you’re a smart businesswoman. That’s it. I try not to judge people.”

Her sarcasm melted into something that looked like a mixture of sadness and nostalgia. Well, I guess nostalgia is always a little sad somehow, which is why I try never to be nostalgic. I try to keep looking forward, where there’s no chance of tripping over regret.

“You got a nightcap around, Bridget?”

“I’ll dig up the Napoleon.”

“No need to get fancy.”

“C’mon, Tommy.” She disappeared from the doorway. “Life’s too short not to get fancy once in a while.”

I followed her into the living room and saw her open a mahogany sideboard loaded with liquor. While she made the drinks, I studied the paintings. They were textured copies, nice ones, many that showed ships or landscapes with wild skies.

“I like the Turners, Bridget. Though I have to admit I’m not a huge fan of Constable.”

“I like Turner best. Romantic and yet…”

“Impressionist.”

“You know something about art.” She handed me a snifter. Looked like she had a glass of port.

“I have a degree in art history from Brooklyn College.”

“Really?”

“Can you imagine me lying about that?”

She laughed, and looked much prettier. “I think artists put a lot of themselves, a lot of positive energy, into their work, and just having them around is healthy. Goya? Not so much.”

“I never thought of it that way. Sure, some artists have positive energy in their work.”

“Turner really does it for me. All the rich colors, soft light, stormy skies, ships, bloop bloop bloop.”

“You’re right. They give off a good energy here.”

Bridget smiled. “Thanks.”

An orange tabby was at my feet, rubbing my leg. “Who do we have here?”

“That’s Turner.”

“I guess you should have let me guess his name.” I scooped up the cat, a male. “Friendly.”

“Not to everybody. He hates the plumber. Sprayed him.”

Turner was sniffing my face and neck, so I put him on my shoulder. There’s plenty of room there. Tigsy used to like to stand on my shoulder.

Bridget says, “You have cats?”

So I says, “One would be nice.”

She laughed. “I’m a speculator in a lot of things, but Turner Cat isn’t for sale. You should get one. They obviously take to you.”

Turner purred and smashed his whiskers against my ear.

“Cats and me have a similar chakra, I think. I’ll try to be out of here tomorrow, but I can’t guarantee my place will be safe by then.”

“Stay as long as it takes to make this threat go away. You won’t see me too much over the next couple days unless you turn in late. Most of my business is afternoons and nights, sometimes late. Then I sleep late. Today was my day off. Here’s the key.”

A large, multiedged key was in her hand, like the new one I had for my apartment. She dropped it from her little hand into my big one. I lifted Turner and plopped him on the floor.

“Just the same, I’ll be a good houseguest, and I appreciate your friendship.” I headed for my room. “Most of my work is during the day, so I’ll be out of your hair. Just shout if there’s trouble. You have my number.”

She smirked, the cat now in her arms. “You know, Tommy, I actually believe you.”

“Believe me?” I had almost closed the door but stuck my head back out. “How’s that?”

“Rest well.”

I smiled back at her. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

I drifted into sleep worrying about whether Tigsy was getting his shots.

MY BRAIN SOMETIMES WAKES ME
like a cat that wants to be fed. That particular morning my brain cat wasworking over my situation trying to find a focal point. Itwas anxious to see the report on McCracken’s travels overnight.

At the same time, as I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, my brain was flipping through the people involved, and it kept sorting out the weak ones. It kept coming back to Frank Buckley and Kootie Roberts.

Then my brain came around to Atkins. I hadn’t given him much thought in this whole thing, but my brain was telling me he was a good inside source at the museum, that if McCracken were up to something and he knew about it, he might tell the right person. She was out to get him, he had to know that, and if he had information that could get her in trouble, it would be in his interest to use it.

Even weaker than Atkins was Unsteady Freddy. He was there Sunday night when the gig went down. He’d said he was rotating to last night’s shift. The guards who worked the night shift often went to a rooster bar on Vanderbilt, off of Grand Army Plaza.

Rolled over and picked up my phone. The clock read:

The night shift ended at six.

I was dressed and out Bridget’s door and in a car service half an hour later. It was a real nice morning, too. The sky was all kinds of blue and orange, the sun struggling to climb over Manhattan and warm all the cold brownstones of Brooklyn.

“Driver?”

“Hm?”

“Did you drive Sunday?”

“This last Sunday?”

“If you drove Sunday, did you happen to pick a woman up on Court Street, at Donut House?”