Mitchell Smith (16 page)

thing that no modern movie seemed to have … worlds a person could go and live in, if she knew the way. This movie about the sisters was very good, and Bette Davis was wonderful in it.

They watched the beginning of the Tonight show, but the guests didn’t look interesting (a man from the San Diego Zoo with a kangaroo on a leash, and, to follow, a rock groupie who’d written a book, and a man who’d been in the CIA). Ellie poured the cat off her lap-Mayo fell to the floor moaning-and Clara collected the icecream dishes and put them in the sink. They went to the bedroom, undressed, took a shower together, and went to bed.

Often, when they showered, they would soap each other, scrub each other’s backs. Sometimes they’d fool around, do breast examinations on each other, for lumps.

“-That was how I got into this gay crap,” Clara once said, “fooling around in the showers with Jennifer Booth.”

“In college?”

“In college. -And we were both getting screwed at the time, too.”

“At Sarah Lawrence,” Ellie had said, regretting her meager two years (barely college at all compared to graduating with honors from Yale, and then law school), ‘-there were boys in the showers, half the time.”

This night, though, they didn’t do any of that. Didn’t soap each other.

Just showered and went to bed. -Ellie supposed Clara still didn’t feel comfortable, after the phone call.

Ellie’d thought she wouldn’t sleep well-thought the discomfort between the two of them (it had gathered again while they were sitting silent, side by side, watching TV), thought this unease would keep her waiting, awake, for some kind of talk. -But she did sleep, after all. The night was cool enough for no air-conditioning, the single bedroom window half open to the narrow slant of grass stretching between the buildings down to the road and the river’s edge. Cool air eased in, with the distant, constant, buffeting wind-sound of the FDR Drive, across the river.

-After a while, Ellie dreamed of checkered cloth. She and some friend were shopping for a tablecloth for the country. Ellie seemed to have a house in New Jersey, north, in the hills. She could see colors in the cloth—so it was a dream with color. Red, and a color she’d never seen before.

After that dream-and after a iong sleep not dreaming, or not remembering-Ellie heard Clara say something, quietly. Then Clara cuddled against her, snuggled along Ellie’s back, naked, smooth and warm. Clara occasionally wore the same stockings or panty hose two days in a row, so the stocking feet sometimes smelled a little.

Except for that, she was very clean . . . sweet-smelling.

Even her perspiration smelled sweet.

“Do you love me?” Clara said, softly, into Ellie’s ear, so as not to wake her if she were asleep. Ellie heard her very clearly, and started to say something to her, to say “Yes, I love you.” But she didn’t. She pretended to be sound asleep-and then was afraid Clara knew she wasn’t, so muttered and shifted restlessly, as if she were dreaming. After a while, after listening to see if Clara would say anything else-louder, so she couldn’t pretend not to hear it-Ellie fell asleep.

She dreamed again, later, and thought she was home with her mother. Her father was at work. Her mother was just the way she remembered her, short skirt, highheel shoes-always dressed to go out, even when she stayed in the house all day.

Her mother was joking in the kitchen, saying all sorts of funny things about how she and Ellie’s father had met.

Their first date-their first serious one, after her mother had broken up with Karol Ferenz, whose father had been a Freedom Fighter,”-who was handsomer than your dad, and already set with the electrician’s union.

He wasn’t-I’m sorry to say-what a woman would call a live wire in the sack. -An area of your dad I have nothing to complain about.” Ellie’s mother had made a funny face, and stuck out her tongue, the same way Clara did.

They were cooking something, after that, but Ellie never went to the stove to look and see what it was.

Toward morning . . . almost morning, the air smelling coolly of the river, Ellie began to wake to small strong hands tugging the sheet down, pushing at her hip so she lay flat on her stomach. The bed trembled as Clara crouched above her in the dark, then, seated lightly on Ellie’s buttocks, began to stroke her back with her fingertips-slowly, slowly all the way up, then down, then up again as Ellie woke … stroking so gently, so lightly it was difficult to feel the touch. Ellie thought that Clara kissed her on the small of her back, but wasn’t sure.

This caressing continued for some time, with perhaps another kiss, then Clara said something too softly for Ellie to understand her . . .

crouched back and lowerand, her hands holding hard, gripped Ellie’s hips and turned her over . . . then stroked her, not as tenderly as before, murmured, bent, and after a few moments commenced to lap as neat as any cat-making in time, as if by magic, Ellie’s thighs to slowly spread in presentation, her knees to slowly rise, and causing her at last, from the comfort of her pillow, to call into the dark.

ill

“What the hell is his name-what happened to that cute little intro they’re supposed to do? What happened to waiting to see if the wine’s O.K.?” Rebecca flicked the rim of her wineglass with a crimson fingernail. -It was . nexpensive glassware, and made barely a tink as she did.

Trystal, my ass.” Rebecca said.

“It tastes pretty good.”

“On a salad, it would taste pretty good. I’m not pouring this upstate shit down my throat-not if I can help it.” She pursed her lips and made a sharp, sudden kissing sound-loud enough, apparently. Ellie saw their waiter, heading past, quickly swerve toward them, a basket of rolls, a little plate of butter flowers in his hands.

“What’s your name, honey? —Christ, he’s young enough to be my kid.”

“Raoul,” the waiter said. He was slender, seemed gently gay, and presented damp dark eyes. His white cotton jacket was clean as new night snow.

“Now listen to me, Raoul,” Rebecca said. “If I was paying for this lunch, I wouldn’t dream of complaining about the upstate wine. -Since my friend is paying, and she’s too ladylike to make noise, I have to tell you that this wine sucks.”

Raoul nodded sympathetically. “It is a little sharp,” he said.

Rebecca set the wineglass down on the butcher block with a clack. “Will you please go out to the kitchen, Raoul, and tell Tony-if Tony still works here-that it would be better to keep the vinegar where it belongs.

And if he has a nice fat jug of some California Chablis, to for Christ’s sake pour me a glass-and one for my friend-and put this New York State shit where the mon key put the pineapple! -And I don’t want to hear some bull about a French wine. We don’t want this, and we don’t want some sour overpriced French crap. California wine, Raoul-40.K.?”

Raoul was not shaken. “No problem,” he said. “-I’ve seen something obese on the shelf back there. Some kind of California Cellars .

“Bring it.”

As Raoul swung away with his rolls and butter, Rebecca said, “The best goddamn light table wine there is, and they keep trying to serve anything but! -What is that? The will to fuck up, Or what?”

“I don’t mind this,” Ellie said.

“My fault,” said Rebecca. “We should have gone to the Dove.” She cocked her head slightly to the right, and seemed to look at Ellie harder with the advanced, left eye. “-Something bothering you-beside your lousy job?”

“You look like a guitar string ready to pop-you need to get laid, that’s the answer to that. I’ve got a guy-nice good-looking Jewish guy, has a personality shlong and a long, strong back; he’d be happy to give you a ride. -No money in it, though.”

“Will you cut that crap out?”

“So—get a vibrator. Don’t get mad. -Get a bigger vibrator! Don’t get mad; I’m your guest here.”

“Eat your salad,” Ellie said.

“This, they do pretty well,” Rebecca said, carefully selected her smaller fork, and stuck it into a slice of avocado. “-House dressing’s supposed to be O.K.”

“What do you hear about the Gaither thing?”

“I hear that the regular Homicide guys think it’s a bullshit case. A friend of mine-Larry Ergin? The bartender?-makes Raoul look like Clint Eastwood-says that some cops were talking about it at Clinkers. Drinking on the cuff, as usual. -And what the hell do they know? They were talking about that case . . . other cases, too. You’re a smart gal; and that wop hoodlum you go around with-at least he has muscles. What they can do-you can do. Don’t pay any attention to the fuckers; that’s my advice. I learned a long time ago it doesn’t pay to be scared of cops. It’s just like dealing with some dog.

Show him you’re scared, and he’s all over you-kick him in the tush, and he leaves you alone - “

“Don’t ever trV that kick on me,” Ellie said, “—or that’ll be your last free lunch.” The avocado salad was pretty good; there were small slices of hard-boiled egg in it.

“Hell, you’re a woman. You’re a friend-not just a cop - “

Depressing to hear. Ellie thought Of Poor Marty, Nardone’s informant.

So scared and lonely. Calling for mpany-likely spilling the beans for company, too, as co much as for the helping hand if he took a fall.

Ellie thought that perhaps Rebecca wasn’t as impervious as she seemed.

Not tough enough to be alone.

“Rebecca,” she said, “-you are full of shit as a Christmas turkey.”

“So … ? That makes me different?”

Raoul swooped up to their table for two-alongside the bare-brick wall-and set two glasses of white wine in front of them. “Compliments of the house,” he said, and scooped up the other two glasses. “By the way—Tony quit. This is compliments of Frank Cosumo … new manager”-spun half around and slid gracefully away.

“Wheel that squeaks,” Rebecca said, satisfied, and took a sip. Ellie noticed she left a faint print of lipstick on the glass rim.

“O.K.-unless we get the kitchen revenge.”

“What?”

“They spit in the food.” Rebecca used her knife and lad fork to carefully fold and refold a leaf of lettuce sa into a pale-green little package, small enough to eat at a bite.

It had been a bad morning. Watching the meticulous leaf folding, Ellie felt that even lunch with Rebecca was better than the morning had been.

She’d been halfway through a report she and Nardone shouldn’t have had to file at all-a follow-up on two state troopers who’d gotten into a fight at the Blackthorn Bar on Seventh Avenue the week before. The quarrel had begun over which game to watch on the bar TV, and, everyone involved being drunk (especially the troopers, who were in town celebrating the birth of one’s son at Presbyterian-the trooper’s wife having had complications in Tarrytown, and been ambulanced down), the quarrel had turned to punching. No weapons had been shown but fists, and the officers responding had settled the fight, tuned the TV to a game show, and left, taking nobody in.

All well, and ending well-but the bar owner, a woman named Grace Aline Moran, had sued the troopers for damages, and, at least so far, had refused to listen to reason, citing a broken bar rail and long mirror, and two damaged tables.

Result: a necessary investigation and report-the report to be filed with the State Police in four copies, each signed by the investigating officers, and Lieutenant Leahy, and Captain Anderson. Nardone had called the troopers upstate the previous week and suggested a payout on the damages; the troopers had been willing. Their commander-unfortunately an asshole-wouldn’t hear of it. Complained to Leahy, in fact, that Nardone’s call had “tainted the inquiry.”

It was the remnant of this silly case that required Ellie to processin eleven pages-strictly by the book-of interviews: one cabby; three black rack pushers from the garment district (the men who’d come to fisticuffs with the troopers); the bartender; another customer (an incoherent alcoholic)-and the squad-car officers who’d responded.

The baby boy-Michael Edward Irwin-was back upstate with his mother, and doing fine.

There was this to finish, and the report on the Queens thing yesterday, and the additional at Sally Gaither’s apartment yesterday afternoon-zip, but additional time to account for. All morning at the keyboard, was what it amounted to-and lunch with Rebecca to follow.

Ellie had been working on a proper explanation of why the alcoholic’s testimony-that one of the troopers had been a small Puerto Rican youth who’d drawn a gravity knife during the disturbance-of why this testimony was unsound, and might be safely disregarded. She’d just decided to use the phrase on interview, SUBJECT, a substance abuser, proved unreliable-when she heard raised DAYDRE”S

voices (raised even higher than usual) at the entrance to the squad room.

She turned from the computer-Nardone, in shirtsleeves, sat across the aisle at his ease, drinking his second cup of tea, and reading a follow-up sent in on Detective Johnson of Internal Affairs, and his acquaintance, Porfirio Cruz, bookmaker. ‘-The same shit’as before,”

Nardone had already said. Ellie turned to look toward the noise, and saw a detective named Medina (with Buddy Serrano, the only other officers in the room) trying to reason with and restrain an angry man-a cop, by the way they were dealing with him.

“You get the fuck out of my way!” this man said, and followed that up by shoving Serrano against a desk. The strange cop was short, thick-chested in an expensive tan sports jacket; carefully cut blow-dried black hair framed a face as furious as an angry dog’s.

“Where is this bitch?” he said, looked around, and saw Ellie down the aisle.

“You!” He shoved past Medina, and stood in the aisle, legs apart, and crooked his finger at her. “You-you fuckin3 bitch. Come here!”

Before she thought-so peremptory was the orderEllie stood up and took a step toward him. Nardone put down his tea and reached up to take her arm, hold it for a moment.

“Where you going’?”

“You … !” The angry man crooked his finger at her again. “I want to talk to you … !”

“I think it’s Ambrosio,” Ellie said, and giggled.