Mitchell Smith (19 page)

Ellie went into the bedroom, smelled traces of Clara, her perfume still in it, sat on the edge of the bed, and took off her shoes. -Free toes.

She got up, went to the closet, and undressed, watching herself absently in the mirror. Ellie supposed it was a sign of something serious that she was so pleased to be alone-that she’d be annoyed if Clara had missed her plane, had had a change of plans, and so came smiling through the door with wine and delicatessen, or Chinese.

It would be tiresome, if that happened.

Ellie walked to the bathroom naked, her hair still up, lifting her small breasts gently in her hands. In a few years, she’d probably need to have surgery there, if she wanted Clara, or a man, to squeeze and suckle at her.

It was ridiculous, really, when you thought about itgrown-up people being so eager to suck and chew on each other. -Loneliness was what did it.

Ellie ran a tub, and sat on the toilet, peed, and tweezed two blond hairs from a small light-brown mole on the outside of her thigh. She didn’t have many moles-not many freckles, either, no matter how long she stayed at the beach. As a little girl, she’d thought that moles were alive-tiny animals that lived on people’s skin, and could hear things, even if they couldn’t see.

She wiped herself, flushed, and climbed into the tubeasing back down into the hot water as deep as she could get without wetting her hair-it was too much trouble to wash it tonight. The water was very hot down near the faucet, and Ellie lifted her feet out and rested them on the tiles above. -Advantage of long legs. She supposed Sally Gaither had writhed in her chair when the steaming water fell, arched, tried to kick, to scream the smothering rubber ball away…. Ellie picked the soap out of its dish; it was pink, and shaped like a shell (she’d bought a box of them … couldn’t remember where), lathered the washcloth with it, and raising up just a little, began to soap her armpits, and down her arms. She should have been able to keep Ambrosio and Tommy from fighting. -Been a lot firmer with Ambrosio. (“You go to hell. ” -In that wimpy little faggoty voice. She hadn’t even yelled at him!) Maybe hit the son-of-a-bitch. That might have snapped him out of it-reminded him he wasn’t talking to some whore on the street … or his wife. That poor woman-living with a hoodlum like that. Getting screwed by him whenever he wanted … pregnant.

Ellie sat up and put her feet back down into the water; it wasn’t quite so hot. She soaped her throat and shoulders, reached around to do her back, then stroked the lather down to her breasts. -Poor soft little things, she thought. There was a pale bruise on her left breast, near the nipple. -Clara, being so damn macho. It would do Clara some good to have a guy like Charley Ambrosio after her. -Then, she’d know what tough was. Ellie looked for a bruise on her arm, where the sergeant had held her, but there was nothing there.

She lathered the washcloth again, closed her eyes, and soaped her face, scrubbing at her forehead, the sides of her nose. She felt for the small porcelain handle over the soap dish, to drape the washcloth over-and scooped up double handfuls of water to rinse her face, get all the soap off so she could open her eyes. Then, she lay back in the water-it was just right, now-and rested, lay listening to her own slow breathing. The soap had a nice perfume. -She remembered where she’d gotten it. She’d bought it at Tendencies-fourteen-fifty for the box. A dozen bars. Small bars. -She would like to have seen Clara in the squad room this morning. Facing him. Clara would have been damn glad Tommy Nardone was there.

Probably wouldn’t have said a word. -Just stood there, scared shitless.

She imagined Clara on a bed, on a white, tufted spread, kicking, trying to fight. Naked-with Charley Ambrosio, hairy as an animal, above her and bearing her down, beating her, his thing . . . his cock sticking out, angry.

An angry cock. Clara scratching, trying to punch with her DAYDRE”S

small fists. Then, she supposed, Clara-bruised, her lip bleeding a little, would lie still … let him do it to her.

She pictured Clara, after a while, enjoying it-enjoying not having to be so tough anymore. Not having to be tough at all. Letting him do anything he wanted to do to her-and when he finished, he’d say he loved her. He’d cry-like a big dog or wild animal crying, and say he loved her. An he’d hug her until her ribs hurt, he was hugging her so hard.

Then he’d guard her for the rest of her life; they’d be married, and she’d have babies with him-two fierce, dark little boys, very beautiful.

She’d stay beautiful all those years, too, and find out that Charley was a wonderful, kind man, under all that savagery, All her friends would be jealous of her. Ellie, too, but not as much. -And when she stayed with them, because they both loved her (and she and Charley would laugh at how they met and the big fight with Tommy Nardone)-when she stayed there and played with the little boys who both loved her, she would lie in bed in the big guest room, looking out on the sea, and would hear Charley and Clara making love. Soft, gentle, special love.

Laughing together, afterward.

And Clara and she would never talk about what they did together, before Charley. -But Charley would know, and one day would make a joke about it, about Ellie’s good taste, like his, in loving Clara. After that, the three of them would be like a family-the boys, too. Then, one night, Charley and Clara would come to the guest room, smiling, very late, the boys asleep long ago . . . moonlight streaming in through the wide windows, shining in from over the sea, a soft sea wind blowing the curtains so they billowed gently in . . . they would come in and Clara would say, we love you as much as we love each other, and they would come to bed and wouldn’t do anything, just hug her, and kiss her.

Maybe there would be sex, later, if Charley got too excited, being in bed with both of them . . . such lovely women. . . .

Ellie soaped her legs-the left, then the right-tucked them back under the warm water as if it were a blanket, and lay back and rolled slightly in the tub to one side and then the other, to wash the last soap foam off her breasts, her belly. Then she sat up, dipped the washcloth into the water, and rinsed her throat, her arms, her shoulders.

She came into the kitchen in her bathrobe and slippers, stooped, with a little grunt, to reach under the table for the cat-food can, and dropped it into the trash bag under the sink.

There were two kinds of frozen pizza in the freezer compartment at the top of the refrigerator-both single servings. Extra cheese and pepperoni. Regular cheese and olive-and-onion. Ellie chose the olive-and-onion-they didn’t put extra cheese on the pizzas, anyway; skimped on the pepperoni, too-took off the outer wrap, and put the pie in the oven at 375.

Then she went out to the hall, took her notebook out of her purse, found Susan Margolies’ number and address—Rebecca, enunciating carefully, had dictated them to her over their coffee (and her rum cake)-and made the call. She was nervous, waiting for the woman to answer, and blamed Rebecca for being such a jackass, talking about her to this possible informant-giving this woman, Margolies, all the time in the world to come up with bullshit to anything that Ellie wanted to know. It was ridiculous. It was a joke, was what it was.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Margolies?”

“Doctor,” the woman said. “-Or His.”

“This is Officer Klein.”

“Oh, God!” The woman laughed. “Rebecca wasn’t kidding! -Officer Klein!”

The woman sounded older than Ellie had expectedand with a sort of tough accent. Boston—someplace like that.

“Well, Officer Klein, I suppose you want to talk to me about Sally . .

. ?”

Ellie said she did.

“Listen, are you a morning person? Because I am madly busy, and if you can come by in the morning tomorrow morning?-it would be the best time.

Is that possible?”

“What time?”

“Can you come at eight-thirty? Is that possible for you? I don’t know how necessary-“

“I can do that.”

“I didn’t know if it was an emergency, or what.”

“I can come tomorrow morning.”

“Eight-thirty? That’s not too early?”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you know the Donegal–off Riverside on eighty-seventh?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Well, it’s a huge place-you can’t miss it. Apartment Seven D.”

“Right. O.K.”

“And listen, I can’t keep calling you Officer Klein. Did I offend you, laughing like that? Some law-enforcement people get very tight-assed.

-It’s a stress thing.”

“No. My name Is Eleanor. Ellie.”

“I like it. Rebecca says you’re one of the prettiest policewomen in the city. -Is that true?”

“No,” Ellie said. Rebecca had had enough fucking free lunches-and this woman was an asshole. “That’s not true at all.” The woman didn’t say anything. “-I’m not.”

“I’ll judge for myself,” Susan Margolies said. “Rebecca says you’re a solitary person. Well, so am I. We should get along very well.”

And she hung up.

“Fuck you,” Ellie said to the phone, and put it down.

She was in the kitchen, checking on the pizza, when the phone rang.

“Was I too abrupt?” Susan Margolies.

“No,” Ellie said.

“I don’t do goodbyes, though I suppose I should; people like to know when things are ending.”

“No problem, His. Margolies.”

“Well, goodbye.” Click.

No more free lunches for Rebecca. Period.

Ellie called Brooklyn, and Connie answered. “Ellieare you comin’ next week?”

“Yes, I am-I told Tommy to tell you.”

“I know, but I wanted to check-you know.”

“Do you want me to bring anything? Let me bring some wine.”

“Just yourself-that’s all you have to bring. We’re getting’ everything.

Ellie thought she’d bring some nice flowers. “-How’s Marie?” she said.

“She’s in a special exercise class-after school? An’ she’s doin’ great.

They do dances-group dances, you know? An’ they’re going’ to have a dance recital.”

“When? I want to come to it. -Or is it just for parents?”

“No, no. It’s for everybody. -You come; it’s next month. Marie would love for you to see her.” Ellie heard Connie draw a quick, soft, nervous breath. “You’re going’ to be surprised, I’ll tell you that. She’s just like a regular little girl doin’ it-you know? She just moves slower, doin’ the steps.”

“I want to go. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“An’ we’ll see you next Sunday?”

“O.K. I’ll be there.”

“Don’t bring anything. -Want to talk to Tommy?”

“O.K. Yes-let me talk to him for a minute.”

“O.K.”

Ellie heard the phone clack onto the table. Voices.

Heard Tommy pick it up.

“Ellie?”

“How are you feeling? How’s your eye?” Connie hadn’t mentioned the black eye . . . the cut lip.

“That’s nothin’. Connie wanted to put some steak on it-I said that’s just wastin’ good meat. It’s fine.”

“Tommy-I’m going over to the West Side and see that Margolies woman. I’m going to see her tomorrow morning.”

“All right. -You go do that, an’ follow up if she gives you something’.

But don’t go see any guy, any assholes without I’m along.”

“Right.”

“You do that, I’ll go up to Cruz’s place. East Bronx.

See if he’s going’ to cooperate-if there’s anything’ there.”

“O.K. -Don’t you go see any assholes alone, either.”

“No problem. I talked to Nicky Bando; Cruz has been around a long time.”

“All right.”

“I get done, I’ll go in and see the lab starts on Gaither’s stuff, the sheets and stuff. Find out what’s what from im DAYDRE”S Fingerprints and Forensic-if they got off the pot yet.

Which I doubt.”

“O.K. I’ll check in with you tomorrow afternoon.”

“You got it. -Connie tell you about Marie?”

“Yes. It sounds wonderful for her.”

“Oh, it’s the best thing in the world, there. Those people really know what they’re doin’.”

“I told Connie I was going to come see the recital.”

“Oh, it’s fantastic. We went to a demonstration the kids did?

-Fantastic. Those kids got the guts to do anything’.”

“Marie’s got the guts, all right. She’s a sweetheart.”

“Yeah, right. She is. -O.K., talk to you tomorrow.”

“Take care.”

“You take care.”

Ellie got to the pizza just in time-slid it out of the oven onto a plate. -It looked better than it smelled. She took a Miller’s from the refrigerator, opened it, and got a fork from the silver drawer. Opened the refrigerator again, took out the container of powdered Parmesan, and sprinkled a lot of that on the pizza. Then she salted it, found the powdered garlic in the cabinet over the sink, and poured a little of that on. She bent down and sniffed.

it didn’t smell too bad. Pretty good. Took the crushed red pepper from the spice rack over the stove, and shook out some flakes of that.

She carried the pizza, some paper napkins, and the bottle of beer out to the living room and set them on the coffee table, turned the floor lamp on low, picked up the TV control, looked over her shoulder to see where she’d fall, sighed, and let herself topple back onto the couch.

Sergeant Budreau, parked in the east underground garage of Park West Village, off Ninety-sixth Street, blew his nose in a Kleenex, and moved the driver’s seat all the way back. The car was a rented four-door Chevy; Budreau had picked it up at Avis himself, using ID and credit cards identifying William M. Turner, Waukegan, Illinois. -Sergeant Budreau had never been to Illinois, and considered that no loss. He hated cold weather, and he’d seen movies of Chicago’s winters on TV.

Miami O.K.; Nicaragua-O.K.; Williamsburg and Langley-O.K.; Baltimore—O.

K. North of that-strictly shit. Budreau took his new copy of Sports Illustrated out of the glove compartment. Pretty good lighting down here enough to read by. Not like some garages, where a guy could go blind just looking at pictures. The Lieutenant had wanted him to park way, way back, against the wall.