Hot Poppies (11 page)

Whoever took the picture of her had killed Rose or knew who did. Mr Snap. Instinctively I knew it. I had to get into the lab on Ludlow Street, but there wasn't anything I could do, not at midnight in the middle of a blizzard. I thought about the freight elevator and I began to sweat. Without warning, my leg cramped.

In my socks, I got up, wiggled my foot, went to the window and opened it. Outside, a few night owls moved languidly, as if they were drugged. Stoned on snow. It was beautiful out, but dead.

Up here in Rick's apartment at the top of the building, you couldn't hear anything from the other lofts. None of the sounds of life—radiators, people, music, dogs, babies—nothing. I never noticed it before. Before, there had always been music playing, people yakking. Now, it was like a padded cell. I closed the window and sat down again. I was so tired.

It was like being alone on an empty liner in the middle of the ocean. I couldn't see anyone or hear anything. But I knew that, in spite of the storm, whoever had been in Ricky's apartment earlier that day would come back for the stuff. The white lines were laid out, the heroin was cut, the bag was full. Dread spilled over me because I knew. I knew that the bozos who attacked me in the elevator were coming here, into my building, onto my turf. Whoever had been here would be back tonight.

10

“Hello, Artie.” When she saw me, she looked surprised, but not scared. Not really scared.

You enter an apartment, a man comes at you out of the dark with a gun, but even before you've really seen him, you're not frightened. Maybe it was the drugs she was doing. Maybe nothing bothered her, maybe she expected me. I wondered if, somehow, Dawn Tae had expected me.

A long sable coat clutched around her, she was quick as a cat as she backed up to the green marble counter. Before I could get to her, the plastic bag with the Chinese characters had disappeared into her handbag and so had the lines of powder.

With a faint smile, daring me, she set her bag on the counter, perched on one of the bar stools and let the fur coat slide halfway down her shoulders.

“I guess if I told you I came to get some things for Ricky, you wouldn't believe me. Would you, Artie?”

Dawn arched her back. She was thin and her face was as haggard as it had been the night before, but now she looked sexy. She wore a white silk shirt and a short leather skirt. There were diamonds in her ears and she fiddled with the long string of pearls around her neck.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

“Was it you here earlier, Dawn?”

“When?”

“An hour ago? Two? When I came up.”

“No. Before that.”

“Who left the window unlocked?”

“I don't know. Me, maybe.”

“You've been here before? Other times?”

“Once. Twice. Oh, don't ask me. Please,” she said. “Do you want to look in my bag, then, Artie? Go on. It's a nice bag. Have a look.” She picked it up and held it out, testing me. Testing the friendship. I shook my head.

Dawn didn't run. She didn't say anything. She smiled at me, got off the stool, crossed the few feet between us and seemed to slide into my arms.

“Please,” she begged. “Please. Take me away, Artie, OK? Just take me somewhere. You always took care of me. Only you, Artie. Be a friend, darling.”

So I didn't ask and we left Rick's apartment and went down to mine. Dawn surveyed the loft.

“You kept it the same. I'm glad. I always loved it here.”

I glanced out the window. A limo was at the curb.

“Yours?” I said.

Dawn looked out. “Yes. Do you want me to tell him to go away?”

“Let him stay. You'll need a ride home, my car's bust,” I said, and she smiled because she knew I was kidding myself, knew she wasn't going anywhere that night. “She's become a cunning girl,” Mr Tae had said.

Dawn sat on the edge of my sofa, took out a portable phone from her Prada bag and called home. “Fine,” Dawn said. “I'm fine. Don't worry if I'm late. If I don't get home until tomorrow. I'm with a girlfriend,” she cooed reassuringly into the cellphone—to her mother, to Pete? Dawn flipped her phone shut. “Do you think I can have some wine, Artie?”

“White?”

“You remember.”

There was a pretty good bottle of Chablis in the fridge. I opened it and sat next to her.

“Hello, Artie, darling.”

She drank steadily; we emptied the bottle, then, carefully, she put her glass on the floor.

“I'm grateful, Artie. I knew Pa would do something idiotic, like asking you to follow me. I knew, but what could I do? He has to show he's trying to help, you had to honor his request.”

“I wasn't ever going to follow you, you know that,” I said, but she put her hand over my mouth.

“So you did what he asked but you let me know. Thank you.” She kissed my cheek.

I had promised Mr Tae I'd find out what was wrong with Dawn. I had taken his money. But I knew all along what was wrong. Dawn was taking drugs, smoking something, shooting up. Maybe, I should have asked. The truth is, I liked her being with me in my place again, snow outside, the feeling there were only two of us, no one else, cruising the city in the building that was a ghost ship. I liked it a whole lot, but it was risky stuff. Dawn was Pete's wife, Martin Tae's daughter.

“So how are you?” I said.

“I'll tell you.” She reached across me for the wine bottle and her sleeve grazed my arm.

“There's Scotch.”

“Scotch would be lovely,” she said. “You know, for months I'd wake up in my bed in Hong Kong and I'd think, soon this will be over and I can go home. Do you understand, Artie? And then I'd open my eyes and I'd think, this is my home. This is it.”

I got the Scotch. She wandered around the room, her hand brushing old possessions of mine that she recognized, a chair, the stereo, some pictures she helped me buy when I had a little dough.

“I loved Hong Kong at first. Rich people making money, going to China, cutting deals. The house was beautiful. I didn't want to live with his family, though, so Pete bought me another house. I had a job. I was always good at money. There was his mother, she was very anxious for grandchildren, but Pete never really pushed. Maybe it was the miscarriage.” She held onto the back of a chair. “My feet are wet, I think.”

Dawn perched on the edge of a stool, her back to me. Almost primly, she took off her boots, then her pantyhose. When she moved, the coat fell off her shoulders again and the leather skirt rode up over her thighs. It was hard not to concentrate on the fact she had nothing on under the skirt. From her bag she took a little gold box and ate something out of it.

I grabbed the pill box. “Don't.”

“It's only Valium,” she said. “But I don't want to talk about me.” Abruptly, she changed the subject. Tell me about you. Tell me a story.”

“What kind of story?” I leaned my elbows on the counter and looked at her a few inches away seated on the stool, ankles crossed like a girl.

“Where you've been, what you're doing. Do you remember when you first bought this loft? Remember? Ricky fell for you first, then he discovered you liked girls. He introduced us. I fell for you. I wasn't even in grad school. I was just starting Yale. I came home and I thought you were the cutest guy I'd ever seen.”

“Ten years ago. Ten?”

“Yes.”

“You weren't bad yourself.” I didn't know what else to say. This was a courting ritual and I didn't know the moves Dawn had in mind, so I leaned on my elbows, poured more Scotch into glasses, and waited.

“You were so up about everything. Like a kid let out of jail. It didn't matter—movies, music, riding your bike, sailing a boat, eating. And New York. Just being here seemed to charge you up like a lightbulb. You were so determined to be happy.”

“I was happy.”

“You were a real cop, I was impressed. Also, you had dimples. I thought that was very sexy.”

“The dimples or the gun?”

“Both. And you were family. In a way, you reinvented us as a family because you wanted one so much. We were yours, all of us, Rick, me, the parents, even Uncle Billy. You made us feel better about ourselves.” Dawn crossed her legs. “God, I was crazy about you.”

“Come on.”

“I was, you see.” She reached for my hand. “I really was.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

“I was a kid. You weren't interested.”

“That's not true. You never said.”

“You always had two girls on the go, the ones I knew about, the rest of them. You could never make up your mind.”

“And I was always broke.”

“I didn't care about that.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Lightly, in her bare feet, Dawn leaped off the kitchen stool, picked up her glass and, holding the coat that must have cost a hundred thou, went to the window. “I hate the snow. It's so lonely.” She put her head back and swallowed the Scotch. “I don't want to talk any more, Artie, not now. I want to stay here and feel safe. You know what I'd really like?”

“Tell me, darling.”

“Fun. I'd like to have some fun again. What scares me is I feel like an old lady and I'll never have any fun again.”

I'm not sure what time it was when Dawn wandered towards the bedroom and I followed, Scotch in hand. From the other room Stan Getz played “My Funny Valentine”. I reached for the light.

“Don't.” Dawn tossed her fur coat onto my bed. All she wore now was the leather skirt and silk shirt. “Perhaps I should take you back to Hong Kong,” she added suddenly. “Come with me, Artie. I want to have some fun.”

“Why go back if you hate it? New York is your home.”

“I have things to finish there. While I can.”

“You're going back soon. Aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“What things?”

“If you came to Hong Kong, I could take care of you. I've got loads of money.” The laugh, soaked in wine and Scotch, was husky. “I could keep you. As long as you want. I miss you, Artie. You always made me laugh.”

We were standing next to the bed—there isn't much else in the room—and I could feel the desire as I put my arms around Dawn. “I don't want your money,” I said, but it wasn't completely true.

The allure of dough was always part of Dawn's charm. She smelled of money—her parents' money, money she made trading commodities. Smelled of it like she smelled of perfume—Dawn was always drenched in Joy. And there were the clothes, the cars, the casual spending, the laughs. Dawn was the first American girl I fell for in a big way, and it was hard to separate her from the sheer pleasure the money made available. But she had married Peter Leung. Hong Kong was Dawn's big adventure. Also, she was crazy about Pete.

“Stop, stop. I can hear those ball bearings in your brain, Artie. Stop it now.”

She unbuttoned my shirt and her hand was cold on my chest. Her pearls were warm from her skin.

This was Russian roulette, being with her. People always found out. The driver in the car outside, still waiting. There was Pete. And Lily. There was the frustration with Lily who I couldn't seem to make happy. I guess the way I feel for Lily, I wasn't supposed to want Dawn. Some shrink would probably say I was a psycho for wanting Dawn. I reached down and picked up my glass and finished the rest of the Scotch.

“I really was crazy about you back then,” Dawn said again. The sense of missed opportunity smothered me and I pushed it away.

“If you won't come to Hong Kong, how about we hole up here for a while?”

Dawn took my arm. She pulled me onto the bed and I could feel the fur of her sable coat against my back. She wrapped herself around me.

“Make me feel better, Artie,” she said softly so I could smell her voice. “Make me feel better like you used to when we sat out on the fire escape and you put your hand under my skirt. We never finished, did we?”

I didn't even try to move away. “It's so nice here,” she said, and unbuttoned her shirt, slipped out of it, took off her bra, arched her back and pushed her leather skirt up high over her hips. She had nothing else on.

Dawn left before it was light. I hadn't slept much for two nights running and there was the booze and the painkillers. I got into bed meaning to sleep for a few hours. I slept all day while the blizzard switchbacked its way in and out of the city, dumped a few more inches of snow on it, let up, hesitated, and started again. When I woke up, it was almost dark.

I looked out of the window where night gathered over the street. Towers of snow trembled on my fire escape and icicles the size of cucumbers hung off the rusty railings.

When I swung my legs over the bed, I put on the TV. The schools had shut again. In parts of the city, there were power outages and telephone lines were down. When I tried to phone Dawn in Riverdale, I couldn't get through. A second storm was on its way up the coast from the Outer Banks, whatever the poor goddamn Outer Banks are, always getting socked in the face by some storm.

It was the third night of the blizzard. Crime was way off, some newsjerk announced. The crooks, not caring much for snow, stayed home and watched TV sets they had lifted off the back of a truck. In Bed Stuy, a tenement went up in flames because of faulty space heaters. Always a problem when the weather got cold, the landlord said, and there followed, on some dumb-ass talk show, a string of city officials who blamed each other and the landlord, a grisly Serb in a shiny suit. The mayor, with his bad hair and that rictus of a grin, popped up everywhere, shaking hands with the snow removal guys, congratulating himself on a great job, remembering, no doubt, how mayors before him lost their job over the lack of snow removal in the boroughs.