I cabled Michele a dozen roses, then spent the balance of the afternoon cleaning up my desk. When I talked to Bill Long he was not only in favor of my idea of interviewing the people involved, but I knew he was impressed by it.
At five as Miss Park was leaving, I fooled with the idea of asking her to eat with me. I had this immediate dread of dining alone. My wife is out of town so let's go...! But could I explain about not wanting to eat alone...? I said goodnight to her and remained at my desk until six, cleaning up my pipes and doing other such important work. When I left at seven the night elevator operator said something about my working overtime. It was another warm evening and I had a light bite in a cafeteria. I took in a movie but my restlessness made the theater seat feel like a straitjacket Also the picture was one of the so-called 'adult Westerns,' which bore me worse than the shoot-'em-up variety. I walked out in the middle of it, wandering around aimlessly. The good feeling of the afternoon had worn away.
I dropped into a quiet Second Avenue bar that seemed cool, and started to get tight. It seemed like something to do. I sat on a bar stool, along with a few other people, and watched the TV perched high in one corner. There was a half-finished drink and a pack of cigarettes, on the bar next to me. I didn't notice them until a tall woman with an over-blonde pony tail walked out of a room cleverly marked HERS and sat on the stool beside me. She took a butt out of the open pack. I moved a little to give her room, said, “Excuse me.” She was wearing a smart and slightly clinging odd print dress, the colors light and gay. Her face could be considered pretty, and I decided she could be 30 or even 40. I was going to light her cigarette, but she said “Thank you,” and lit her cigarette—all in one motion—as she turned to watch TV. From the profile view I knew she was wearing a powerful girdle, but the upstairs didn't seem the work of any bra contraption and reminded me greatly of Miss Park.
As I sipped my drink a thought which I realized had been rattling about in the rear of my mind all day came into sharp focus: now was my chance for an affair. It had such a corny melodramatic connotation I smiled at myself in the clean bar mirror. Of course I knew the idea hadn't been born just today. But for the life of me I couldn't figure why I wanted an affair. Michele and I were not only able and willing bed partners, but we often reached heights of exhausting passion. Yet in the last—oh—year, especially whenever the papers played up a new call girl scandal, I had found myself thinking of having another woman. A hundred dollar a night call girl. Or Miss Park. Whenever I gave it any serious thought, I was frankly puzzled by this want and wondered if it came to all men after a half-a-dozen years of marriage. I was positive that no other woman could be as pleasing as Michele, yet... I couldn't deny I had these thoughts. With Michele away, why if she ever found out, she certainly couldn't blame me... now.
Whether it was the drink warming my insides or/and the slightly perfumed presence of the blonde beside me, I began to feel as excited as a schoolboy. When blondie groaned at an ancient joke the TV comedian pulled, I jabbed with, “He hasn't talent, merely courage.” Which was as old as his gag.
She nodded. “I swear, all I can take on TV are the fights. I simply can't stand it when they try so hard to be funny, or clever—any of that intellectual jazz.”
“I know what you mean—the high water mark of mediocrity; that's TV.” I motioned for the bartender. “Would it upset you terribly if I buy you a refill and act like a brash joker?”
She turned and gave me a coy, studied glance, then she smiled. If her teeth said she was far nearer 40, her face was also prettier than I'd thought. She said, “Yes, I think a refill will be fine. And I like your frank approach. When it comes to drinks I don't stand on convention or any of that silly old jazz...”
Mrs. Wilma Hunter
The day started wrong. In fact it started in the afternoon. I awoke at 2 p.m. feeling wretched and lost with a terrible hangover. It was another muggy day and I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, full of sweat and stale odors: the empty apartment making me want Michele so much I was afraid. I simply had this sense of fear, of foreboding.
I sat there in a haze, a whole slew of thoughts circling in my throbbing mind. Things like: Is any binge worth the hangover? How can people in love make each other so miserable? The constant thought—exactly what had I done to make Michele blow sky high? There was also the slightly sobering thought that I'd already wasted a half a day, ought to get on my horse.
The bedroom spooked me because it was so neat. I missed Michele's sloppy habit of leaving her underthings hanging on the backs of chairs and on the dresser. There was only one bright spot, I was so glad I hadn't tried to take the blonde in the bar to bed. I wasn't even sure she would have been willing, but the tenth time she said, ”... all that jazz,” I'd lost interest.
Sitting on the bed I realized I was listening intently. I didn't know for what, unless it was the sound of Michele washing up, or her footsteps in the kitchen. I told myself to cut it out A cold shower and food left me with only a faint headache. After I shaved and dressed I went to 'work.' I took out the list of people connected with Francine Anthony's death, in one way or another. Prof. Henry Brown lived in a hotel on West 99th Street, the Hunters lived a dozen blocks from me. I phoned them and didn't get any answer. Next I phoned Brown's hotel. A man answered who couldn't speak English. I kept shouting, “Prof. Henry Brown?” and he kept repeating, “Non,” or something that sounded like that. Next I phoned Matt's agent and his secretary told me he was gone for the day.
I sat by my phone, smoking a pipe, feeling a bit helpless. I walked over to the garage and drove up to 99th Street I worked up a fine sweat squeezing into a parking space that seemed to be the length of my car to the inch.
The 'hotel' was a converted apartment house full of Puerto Rican men, women and children; mostly children. Actually it seemed more like a large pension than a cheap hotel—except for the faint stink of insecticide. The desk clerk was a stooped refugee, a plump man in a loud sports shirt, his bald head almost polished. This was obviously my pal on the phone, for when I asked for Prof. Brown he shook his head and tried to tell me something in God-knows-what-language. When I shook my head he smiled and tried saying it again in Spanish. I shrugged to let him know I didn't understand, and he shrugged back, pointed to the door and let it go. I was getting rattled by this run-a-round and the heat and the insecticide weren't doing my head any good.
When I asked if he spoke French the clerk's face lit up as he rattled back in fast French which I vaguely understood to mean he was delighted to meet anybody who could speak French. I asked in my best slow French for Prof. Brown and merely talking French made me want to cry. The clerk pointed to a wall clock and rattled on. I finally got the idea: Prof. Brown always left the hotel at about ten-thirty in the morning.
I asked if I could have some stationery and he looked embarrassed, as if I'd asked a stupid question. There wasn't any stationery. I told him I wanted to leave a note for Brown and any paper would do. The clerk started a wild search for paper, hunting through a kind of receipt book for a blank piece. I finally told him to tell Prof. Brown I'd be back in the morning, or rather told him as best I could.