"'We Be Closed for the Month So's We Can Be Buyin' Some New Stock, Jock.'"
"I also called Beverly Faber. You can imagine how much I wanted to make that call, but I figured I had to. She sounded sedated, or maybe she was just groggy from shock and lack of sleep. The cops had her up until all hours answering questions. The impression they left her with, or maybe it's the one she wanted to be left with, is that Jim's murder was a case of mistaken identity."
"Well, it was."
"Right now she seems to see it as the workings of random fate. Do you remember when that actress dropped something out a window? I think it was a flower pot."
"God, that was ages ago. I was a cop when it happened. In fact I was still in Brooklyn, I hadn't transferred to the Sixth. That's how long ago it was."
"The flower pot fell something like sixteen stories and killed a guy walking home from dinner. Wasn't that it?"
"Something like that. The question at the time was how the flower pot got out the window. Not that she was aiming at the poor jerk, but did it really just happen to fall or did she pick it up and throw it at somebody?"
"And he ducked and it went out the window?"
"Maybe. Whatever it was, it was a hell of a long time ago."
"Well, Beverly remembers it like it was yesterday. Her Jim was like the guy who got hit with the flower pot, just minding his business until God's thumb came down and squashed him like a bug." She made a face. "You know," she said, "I never liked Beverly. But I certainly felt for her, and I really wanted to like her for the duration of the phone call."
"I know what you mean."
"She's not an easy woman to like. I think it's her voice, she sounds like she's whining even when she's not. Listen, are you hungry?"
"Starving."
"Well, thank God, because I was afraid I was going to have to tie you down and force-feed you. Go listen to your messages while I fix you something."
I played the messages and jotted down names and numbers, even though I didn't much want to return any of the calls, especially the ones from either of the cops. Wister's second message was as Elaine had described it, and drew much the same response from me as it had from her. Joe Durkin's call, logged in just half an hour before I'd opened my eyes, sounded at once urgent and irritated, and didn't make me eager to get him on the phone.
I deleted the messages- you can't really erase them, it's digital, so there's no tape to erase. I went into the kitchen and ate everything Elaine put in front of me, and when the phone rang again I let the machine screen it. The caller hung up without leaving a message.
"There were a lot of those," she said. "Hangups."
"There always are. A lot of the time it's telemarketers."
"God, do you remember my brief career as a telemarketer? What a washout I was."
"That wasn't telemarketing."
"Of course it was."
"It was phone sex," I said.
"Well, it's the same thing. Either way you're jerking people off over the phone. God, that was funny, wasn't it?"
"You didn't think so at the time."
"I thought it was something I could do, and it turned out it wasn't. That was around the time I met Lisa."
"Right."
"Before you and I moved in together, and before I opened the shop. I'd stopped seeing clients and I couldn't figure out what to do with the rest of my life."
"I remember."
"Matt?"
"What?"
"Oh, nothing."
I rinsed my plate at the sink, put it in the rack to dry.
She said, "You'll want to call TJ."
"In a little while."
"And did you want to catch the TV news? New York One had a lot of crime scene footage."
"It'll keep."
She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Then she said, "You and Lisa were close, weren't you?"
"Close?"
"Look, do me a favor, okay? Tell me to shut up and mind my own business."
"I'm not going to tell you that."
"I wish you would."
"Ask your question."
"Was she the one you were sleeping with? God, I can't believe I said that."
"The answer's yes."
"I know the answer's yes. It ended awhile ago, didn't it?"
"Quite a while ago. I hadn't seen her since before the two of us saw her at Armstrong's."
"That's what I thought. I knew you were seeing somebody. That's what I meant when I said…"
"I know."
"That marriage didn't have to change anything. And I meant it. Did you think I was being noble? Because I wasn't."
"I figured you meant it."
"And I did, and I was not for one minute being noble. I was being realistic. Men and women are different, and one of the ways they're different is sex. They can throw me out of the Sisterhood for saying so, but I don't care. It's true. And I ought to know, right?"
"Right."
"Men screw around, and for years I made a very nice living being somebody they screwed around with. And most of them were married, and none of it had anything to do with their marriages. They screwed around for a lot of reasons, but all of them added up to one reason: Men are like that."
She picked up my hand, turned my wedding ring around and around.
She said, "I think it's probably biological. Other animals are the same way, and don't tell me they're all neurotic or responding to peer pressure. So why should I expect you to be different, or why should I even want you to be different? The only thing to worry about is if you found somebody else you liked better than me, and I didn't think that would happen."
"It never will."
"That's what I decided, because I know what we've got. Did you fall in love with her?"
"No."
"It was never a threat, was it? To us."
"Not for a minute."
"Look at me," she said. "I've got tears in my eyes. Can you believe it?"
"I can believe it"
"The wife crying over the death of the mistress. You'd think they'd be tears of joy, wouldn't you?"
"Not from you."
"And 'mistress' is the wrong word for her. You'd have to be paying her rent, and seeing her every afternoon from five to seven. Isn't that how the French manage these things?"
"You're asking the wrong person."
"Cinq à sept, that's what they call it. What'll we call her? How about the Designated Girlfriend?"
"That's not bad."
"I just feel so sad. Oh, yes, hold me. That's better. You know how I feel, baby? Like we lost a member of the family. Isn't that ridiculous? Isn't that nuts?"
One of the first calls I returned was from Ray Gruliow. "I need your professional services," he said, "and for a change I've got a client with reasonably deep pockets, which means you can bill at your full hourly rate."
"I don't suppose he can wait a couple of weeks."
"I wouldn't even want to wait a couple days on this one. Don't tell me you're booked up."
"That's what I just told another member of your profession. I'll be a little more candid with you."
"In light of our warm personal and professional relationship."
"That's the idea. I've got some personal business, Ray, and I can't even think about work for the time being."
"Personal business."
"Right."
"Some would call that oxymoronic, don't you think? If it's personal, how can it be business?"
"How indeed?"
"Wait a minute. This wouldn't have anything to do with something that happened last night in your part of town, would it?"
"Like what?"
"You see the headline in the Post? 'Slaughter on Tenth Avenue,' they called it, with the originality for which they're famous."
"I haven't seen the papers yet."
"Or the TV?"
"No."
"Then you don't know what I'm talking about?"
"I didn't say that."
"I see," he said. "Very interesting."
I was silent for a moment. Then I said, "I think I need legal advice."