Authors: John Lutz

Single White Female (9 page)

BOOK: Single White Female

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He looked like a computer-game figure weaving through a maze. Allie watched Graham Knox's slender body maneuver among the crowded tables at Goya's as he brought her the hamburger and Diet Pepsi. Though he actually moved gracefully, there was that inherent and somehow appealing awkwardness about him that seemed to stem more from the tentative, intense expression he habitually wore than from physical motion. He always seemed preoccupied and puzzled by some inner conflict.

“You're busy tonight,” she said as he placed her order on the table. The charred-beef scent of the hamburger wafted up to her. She wasn't sure if it made her feel hungrier or slightly ill.

“And you have something on your mind.”

Allie was amazed. “How'd you know?”

Graham gave his canine-like lopsided smile and wiped his hands on the small white towel tucked in his belt. “I'm sort of a student of human nature. Gotta be, in my profession.” A Beatles song, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” began blasting from the speakers. The decibel level of conversation in the restaurant rose to challenge it. The result was a maelstrom of noise. Graham leaned down close to her, his mouth near her ear. “You need to talk, Allie?” She felt his warm breath, like the life-breath of a lover.

“You shared your good news,” she said, “I thought I might share my badâtempered with some good news, though.”

“The bad news isn't
too
bad, I hope.” He glanced at his watch, one of those with a moon phase dial on it to make it more complicated. “It's just past seven o'clock. The rush is almost over, and I can get off around eight. Wanna combine talking with walking?” He made it sound like a trick of coordination.

Allie thought a walk was a good idea; the noise might not abate in the usually quiet Goya's. And it was a beautiful late September night, warm and clear. “I'll eat slow,” she told him.

“I can sneak you some dessert, on the house. Give you an excuse to hold down the table. Unless you're on a diet.”

She smiled sadly. “No, I'm not in a dieting mood.”

Graham touched her shoulder in sympathy; she noticed his fingers were long and tapered. He retreated through the melee of noise and laughter, toward the swinging doors to the kitchen, his lanky frame swaying among the tables with practiced precision and efficiency. From behind, he appeared not at all awkward or tentative. Someone in a far corner called to him. He waved a hand to confirm that he'd heard. Somebody somewhere turned down the volume of the canned music. The Beatles were finished with “Lucy” and were singing now about “Sergeant Pepper.”

Allie blocked out the voices around her, the laughter and the clinking of glasses and flatware. She gnawed on her hamburger and listened to the music. John Lennon. Christ! How could anyone shoot John Lennon?

Graham had brought her a scoop of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries over it. Allie was often amazed by how available fresh produce was in the concrete world of New York. Fresh flowers, too. As if there were a garden on every cloud-high roof.

After dessert and coffee she felt better. Her guilt at eating so many calories was assuaged by the fact that the strawberries and ice cream were free. She suspected even Richard Simmons would accept free dessert in a restaurant. He would if he saw those strawberries, anyway, and his appetite was heightened by other unfulfilled yearnings.

Now she and Graham were walking west on 74th Street, toward Riverside Park. There was a light breeze blowing in off the Hudson. The night was cool and, despite the exhaust fumes, the air smelled remarkably fresh for Manhattan. The sidewalks were crowded with people who seemed to be dawdling, enjoying the unseasonably fair weather; even traffic seemed to be moving slower, car windows cranked down, drivers' elbows jutting out in vehicle after vehicle as if an amalgamation of flesh and metal formed each machine.

Graham walked on the street side, slowly so Allie could keep pace, and listened intently with his head bowed as she told him about Sam.

“There's something doubly good when somebody you love is out of your life, then reenters it.”

“Second time around and all that,” Graham said. He didn't sound happy about what Allie had told him. “Sounds as if you really love this Sam.”

“I don't seem to have much choice, Graham.”

“Sure, I understand. Lucky Sam. He smart enough to know he's lucky?”

“I think so.”

“You'd better know it.”

She couldn't help remembering Lisa. “That's not an easy thing to know for sure.”

“Yeah. Well, that's the human condition. What keeps people like me from ever running out of material to write about. Anyway, tell me the bad news you wanted off your chest. If I sound more eager to hear it, don't blame me.”

She told him about Mayfair and losing the Fortune Fashions assignment. Then she told him about the obscene phone calls in which her name was used.

“You tell Sam about any of this?”

“Just some of the phone calls.”

“Why not about Mayfair?”

“I'm afraid of what he might do. Men like Mayfair are everywhere; Sam getting embroiled in a fight or a lawsuit wouldn't change societyâor get the account back.”

“I suppose not. It's the phone calls that are really bothering you, right?”

“You know me like a good friend, Graham.”

“That's because I am a good friend.” They stopped and stood on the corner of West 74th and West End Avenue. “Didn't you say your full name's in the phone book?” Graham asked. The breeze riffled his dark hair, mussing the wings over his protruding ears.

Allie nodded.

“Then I wouldn't worry so much about the phone calls. Just some pervert who chose you because he spotted the complete listing in the directory and knew he could shake up a woman by using her first name. It's probably not as personal as you think. Or as you
feel
it is. You'd be surprised at the number of obscene phone calls made every day in this city. Every hour.”

“What bothers me,” Allie said, “is that my address is in the directory along with my number. This sickoâif it is only one manâknows where to find me.”

“Yeah. Well, I can see where that makes you uneasy, and that's exactly what a bastard like your caller wants you to worry about. But believe me, the kind of nut who phones women and makes sexual references almost always does it because he's too intimidated to confront them face-to-face. These are usually the last people who'd show up at your door and try something.”

“âAlmost always,' huh? âUsually'?”

“Those words apply to virtually everything, Allie.”

True enough. But she didn't agree with him out loud.

“What'd Sam say about the phone calls?” he asked.

“Pretty much what you said. He doesn't think they're anything to worry about. That's what most men would say; they don't feel the vulnerability in that kind of situation.”

“Can't help that,” Graham said. “We're not afraid of mice, either.”

They began walking down West End. A raggedy man wearing incredibly wrinkled, oversized gray pants, and a green wool blanket draped over bare chest and shoulders, approached them and in an almost unintelligible mumble asked if they had any spare change. The breeze carried his odor of stale perspiration and urine. Graham shook his head no and said, “Sorry.” Allie wondered how it would feel to be rejected that way by an indifferent world. To live on the streets of a city as cruel as Manhattan. Delusion might be essential to deflect the pain.

She watched the beggar veer toward a well-dressed couple waiting to cross the intersection. Trying to muster pity but feeling only fear, she said, “It must be a bitch, having to exist like that, struggling to survive through each day.”

Graham said, “It is, but he asked the wrong people for money. You're out of work, and I've only been paid the first half of the advance on my play.”

“We don't have to justify not giving a beggar money,” Allie said, a bit surprised at the vehemence in her voice.

“Yes, I'm afraid we do.”

At a newspaper and magazine kiosk, Allie paused to buy a
Village Voice.
She enjoyed reading the weekly paper, and it also contained help-wanted ads, maybe for computer programmers.

She abruptly yanked the
Voice
out from beneath the rock that was weighting it down on the stack of papers, and handed over a dollar bill for the paper to the grizzled old woman inside the kiosk, but after taking a step and starting to shove her wallet back into her purse, she stopped, realizing something was wrong.

She squeezed the wallet with probing fingers.

Opening it, she checked the plastic card and photo holders. She pried apart the leather compartments, her movements quicker and less controlled.

“They're gone!” she cried.

Graham was staring at her, puzzled. “What's gone?”

“My Visa and MasterCard.”

“You sure?”

She examined the wallet again, more slowly and carefully. “Positive. And something else is missing. My expired Illinois driver's license.”

“Expired, is it? Good. Somebody might be surprised if they try to use it to cash a check. You sure this stuff was in your wallet at the restaurant?”

“Not absolutely sure. It might have been gone and I didn't notice. The wallet felt different to me just now, not as bulky. I haven't charged anything in over a week. Shit! The cards might have been gone for days!”

“Don't panic, Allie, you can only be held responsible for fifty dollars on each card, even if the thief uses them to travel to Europe. It's a law.”

“I know. Still . . .”

“And they've probably only been gone a short time, or you'd have missed them earlier.”

Allie didn't answer, trying to remember how the wallet had felt in Goya's when she'd gotten out money to pay for dinner. She hadn't actually taken the wallet out of her purse, letting it rest inside so it and the folding money would stay out of sight below table level. Couldn't be too careful.

“Better get on the phone,” Graham said, “and report the cards missing. They'll cut credit on them and issue you some new plastic with different numbers.”

“I don't understand how I lost them.”

“You probably didn't lose them. Credit cards are stolen every day.”

Every day. Like obscene phone calls to single women.
“But no one's had the opportunity.”

“Haven't they? Thieves can be damned clever. And no woman guards her purse every minute she's out.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Maybe the creep who stole your credit cards and driver's license is the same guy who phoned you. Maybe that's how he settled on you to pester. If so, it'll lose its thrill after a while and he'll stop.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I told you, I'm a student of human nature. But if it'll make you feel better, maybe you should go to the police. Report the obscene calls and the stolen cards and license. Might not help, but it can't hurt.”

“I'll think about it,” Allie said. “Meanwhile, I'd better notify somebody about the missing cards. Whoever stole them might be off on a shopping spree right now. Buying one of everything at Bloomingdale's.”

“I've gotta admit, that sounds like fun.”

She responded with morose silence.

“Maybe they're only lost, not stolen,” Graham said to comfort her. “That wouldn't be so bad.”

Allie thought inanely that nothing could be worse than being lost; she'd been lost for a while and knew.

She tucked the folded
Voice
under her arm, clutched her purse tightly, and she and Graham began walking at a fast pace back toward West 74th. Their heels clopped out a relentless rhythm on the hard concrete.

The night no longer seemed friendly.

When Allie reached the Cody Arms she happened to glance up as she crossed West 74th and saw a shadow flit across the drawn shade in Hedra's bedroom window. Again. It was moving rapidly, arms flailing. Allie suddenly realized someone was dancing madly in Hedra's room, whirling, shaking her head, hair flying.

She went upstairs and let herself into the apartment. As she walked silently down the hall to her bedroom, she heard the floor creaking in Hedra's room and saw darkness pass across the lighted crack beneath the closed door. Allie moved nearer and put her ear close to the door. There was no music inside the room, only the
swish swish scuff scuff
of Hedra frantically dancing.

Allie knocked on the door. “Hedra? You okay?”

The noise on the other side of the door ceased abruptly. Then Hedra's voice said, “Sure, Allie. I was practicing a new dance step, that's all.”

Allie hadn't even known Hedra danced. She stood there awhile longer, but Hedra said nothing more. The light washing from beneath her door suddenly disappeared.

As long as she's all right, Allie figured, what she does in her own room is her business. That was part of the understanding when they'd become roommates. Still, there was something about the absence of music and the uncontrolled wildness of the dance that gave Allie the creeps. On the other hand, a backlighted figure moving in silhouette could be deceptive.

Apparently Allie's roommate had danced enough that night and had gone to bed. Allie decided that was a sound idea. She turned away from the blank face of the door and went to her bedroom.

Allie woke the next morning to the sound of a sanitation truck grinding away at garbage that had been piled high at the curb. Loud metallic clanking, then high-pitched whining and rending was followed by the coughing roar of the truck engine, then the squeal and hiss of air brakes. Now and then one of the workers handling Manhattan's throwaways would shout frantically or bark loud laughter. It was an adventure, picking up trash.

She opened one gritty eye and studied the dust motes swirling in a sunbeam bisecting her bedroom, then slowly shifted her gaze to the red digital numbers on the clock by the bed. Eight-thirty. Still early.

Then she realized, late, early, it made no difference. She had no appointments. Nowhere to go.

No work and no immediate income.

She heard tap water run for a moment in the kitchen, then Hedra stride across the apartment and open and close the hall door, leaving for whatever job she was working.

Allie remembered last night's discovery that her I.D. and credit cards were missing from her wallet. She would look up the card numbers on her monthly statements, then she'd call the credit companies and inform them of the missing cards. Their numbers would soon be listed among those stolen, among hundreds and perhaps thousands listed on the hot sheets for salesclerks and cashiers to scan while infuriated customers waited in checkout lines.

New plastic would be sent, but Allie would be left without much cash and with no credit until her replacement cards arrived. She realized, with an edge of subtle panic, that getting new charge cards might take a while. It was almost as if an integral piece of her were missing; plastic had become essential in her life.

She rolled over to lie on her back and gazed listlessly at the ceiling, listening as the metallic mayhem of the trash pickup moved down the street like a raucous carnival. Finally the noise drifted faint and echoing from the next block.

As she ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, she realized she was parched and thirsty. She'd lain in bed for a long time last night before falling asleep, and she hadn't drunk anything since dinner at Goya's.

Still, she was more tired than thirsty. She watched a tiny insect on the ceiling make its gradual, indirect way to the corner near the window. It stopped, started, slowly detouring around cracks in the plaster, moving through life with the care necessary for survival. Finally it disappeared in deep, angled shadow. Into safety? Or danger?

Allie sighed, stood up, and plodded barefoot from the bedroom. The floor was hard and unyielding beneath her soles. She could feel the individual cracks between strips of wood. She returned to the bedroom to get her slippers, but she couldn't find them. Hedra had been wearing them last night; maybe they were in her room.

But the slippers were nowhere in sight in Hedra's bedroom. Allie peeked beneath the bed. Nothing there. Not even dust. She walked to the closet to see if compulsively neat Hedra had placed the slippers in there.

A moment after she opened the closet door she stepped back in surprise. The clothes. Hedra's clothes. They looked so much like . . . they
were
Allie's own clothes.

Allie turned and hurried to her own room. She flung open the closet doors.

Her clothes were there, as they'd always been.

She sat down on the edge of the mattress, gazing at the rows of dresses, blouses, and slacks on hangers. There were a few variations in color and material from Hedra's closet, but not many.

Wherever possible, Hedra had bought exact duplicates of Allie's clothes.

Allie sat very still on the edge of the bed, wondering what it meant.

Later that day she phoned Sam and told him about it. He seemed more amused than alarmed. “What the girl wears is her business,” he said, “and you know how she idolizes you.”

“She does idolize me,” Allie said. “More than I find comfortable.”

Sam laughed. “You deserve it. Have I ever told you that?”

Allie had to smile, remembering. “Yeah, you've told me.”

“Meant it, too.”

“Seeing Hedra's clothes this morning, after losing my credit cards last night, is what's got me rattled, I guess.”

“You lost your credit cards? As in Master and Visa?”

“Yeah. I don't know how.”

“Get the cards back?”

“No, they might have been stolen.”

“Better phone in the numbers.”

“I already have. I notified the police, too.”

“Well, your liability's limited when you lose credit cards, and maybe they'll turn up.”

“I can't use them if they do; I have to wait for replacements. That'll take a while.”

“By the way, Allie, I've got some bad news.”

Her heart took a dive. “Bad news? Dammit, Sam, that's not what I need this morning.”

“Christ, not that bad.” He laughed. “I only meant I have to be away for a couple of weeks. A conference in Milwaukee, then a junk-bond seminar in Los Angeles. Can you live without me?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, I can't live without you. Not for more than a few weeks. I'll phone you.”

“You'd better,” she said.

“Try not to worry so much, okay, lover?”

“Sure. That's probably good advice.”

Loudly, only half-jokingly, he blew a kiss into the receiver.

When she hung up on Sam, the phone rang almost immediately. She thought it might be Sam, calling her back to say something he'd forgotten.

But as soon as she picked up the phone she knew it wasn't Sam.

No voice on the other end of the connection, only heavy, uneven breathing.

Then, “Allie, baby? Sweet Buns? I know it's you. Soon we're gonnaâ”

She slammed the receiver into its cradle.

BOOK: Single White Female