A pair of street musicians entered the bar. One carried a violin, the other a piano accordion. They took a stance away from the crowded bar and began to play an old tune. And immediately afterward she came in. Crowley knew at once that she was the one he had been waiting for.
She was about Moira’s age, he judged, past her middle forties, pushing fifty. She wore a beautifully tailored suit of grayish lavender. There was a clip of sparkling stones at her lapel and Crowley thought the stones were diamonds. Her hat was small and smart with a jaunty feather. Her face was expertly made up to hide the lines and crowsfeet of middle age. A high, ruffled collar concealed the sagging flesh of her throat. She wore glasses, but they were very special glasses, harlequin-shaped, the rims twinkling with gold work and tiny stones. She was alone.
Crowley shifted his position, used his weight to make a place at the bar. As she passed him, he called to her, “You can get in here, lady. There’s quite a crowd tonight.”
She nodded to him coolly, murmured thanks. She took the place beside him, but seemed unimpressed by the muscular young man. She’s playing it cagey, Crowley thought. She’s like Moira. The well-dressed woman ordered a dry martini and Crowley exulted. Moira had drunk dry martinis. Dry martinis worked on them fast. This was going to be easy. Crowley looked speculatively at the alligator bag the woman carried. It was a large bag. It must have cost at least a hundred dollars. It would hold a lot of money and a lot of expensive gadgets like gold cigarette cases and lighters and jeweled compacts.
The woman finally looked at Crowley. There was neither great interest nor distaste in the look she gave him. It was just a look of calm appraisal. She said, “Since you were good enough to make a place for me, the least I can do is offer you a drink.”
Crowley decided his little-boy act was best for this situation. “I’d appreciate it, ma’am,” he said. “I’m kind of broke tonight. I’ve just been locked out of my room, in fact.”
A shadow of suspicion flickered on the woman’s face, but she ordered Crowley’s beer. She handled her martini like an experienced drinker. She didn’t gulp and she didn’t sip. She drank. She was out to get a lift, obviously, and she was going to.
She finished her martini before she spoke again. She said, “You’re a husky young man. I’d think you could get a job that would pay enough for your room rent. Don’t tell me you’re one of these artists who like to starve in attics. You hardly look the type.”
Crowley said, “I’m kind of a model. I pose for photographers mostly, but I pose for artists, too, now and then. Artists say I’ve got a good body. I come down here to the Village to see if maybe some artist would pay me to pose.”
The woman gave a short laugh that was almost a contemptuous snort. “Artists don’t look for models in saloons at ten o’clock at night.”
Crowley thought. The stinking phony. A goddamn know-it-all. Just wait till I get my hands on you, you phony. He said, “Are you a painter, ma’am?”
She ordered another drink and took a swallow from it before she answered. She said, “As a matter of fact, I do paint, and I paint rather well in an academic way. But with me it’s strictly a hobby. And don’t get ideas, young man. I’ve done some portraits and figure studies, but since my husband died three years ago I’ve concentrated on still life. A bowl of fruit can’t get you in any trouble. A living model can, sometimes, especially if he’s a muscular young man like you.”
Crowley said, “I didn’t mean anything. I’m only trying to get a little honest work, that’s all.”
The woman turned toward Crowley, drank from her glass, regarded him squarely for the first time. The bright brown eyes behind the harlequin glasses studied his face, wandered over his big body. She said, “You’re a rather strange young man. You have a queer look. It’s even rather frightening. With your build, you should be driving a trailer truck or playing professional football. But all you want to do is make a few miserable dollars displaying your body for a photographer or an artist. It must be some kind of complex. A Narcissus complex, maybe. You want something, I can tell that. You want something rather terribly. Everyone does, I guess.”
Crowley said, “Maybe all I want is a little friendship.”
She nodded slowly. “You know, that could be true. I’ve learned to understand loneliness since my husband died. This is a lonely city. The loneliest in the world. I’m well enough off and I have friends, but it’s not the same. Are you married?”
Crowley shook his head. “No,” he said. “Maybe we’re both lonesome. Maybe we could be friends.”
Her regard was speculative now. At length she said, “Friends? I suppose we could be that. But don’t get wrong ideas. You’re an extraordinarily attractive young male animal and I’m a woman. But I don’t kid myself. I’m forty-eight and I admit it. I’m old enough to be your mother.”
God, Crowley thought, she just had to say that. How many times had he heard that line? They just had to say it. All of them did. He smiled sadly, “I never had a real mother. My mother died when I was born. I was brought up in an orphanage.”
The woman said, “Maybe that’s what you’re looking for. A mother. Well, it’s a new role for me. My husband and I never had children. So maybe I’m looking for a son.” She smiled wryly. “Maybe I can be a mother instead of a sister to you. Let’s have a drink on it. My name’s Kate Maynard.”
Crowley said, “My name’s Joe Harvey.” He never gave them his right name the first time. If he merely robbed them and beat them and left, they wouldn’t know his name in case they hollered copper. If he decided it was more profitable to play them along for a while — the way he had Moira — he could always give them his right name later. But there wouldn’t be any more nights for Kate Maynard. She was going to get the big treatment tonight. The works.
Kate laughed. “Harvey,” she said. “Harvey, the rabbit. You’re a hell of a big rabbit, Harvey.”
They had another drink. And another. The beer was choking Crowley. He hated it and stalled her when her own glass was empty and she signaled the bartender, telling her he’d finish the beer in his bottle. He kept trying to get her out of the bar, to make her take him home with her, but she was cagey, even though the martinis were creeping up on her. Damn her, Crowley thought. I’ll make her pay for stalling me. She’ll pay for making me beg like this. Just wait till she pokes that face of hers up against a mirror in the morning, if she’s able to get off the floor by then. Jesus, Crowley thought, I’ll go crazy if I can’t start soon.
He’d never before been so impatient for the conclusion of an affair like this. He knew somehow that this would be different from all the others.
By midnight Kate Maynard was tight and she admitted it. She wasn’t a messy female drunk. She held her liquor like a lady. Her legs were under her and her tongue wasn’t thick. But she was laughing too loudly and her bright eyes had a glazed look in them. She said, “The party’s over for little Kate. Get me a cab, Harvey. Get me a cab, son, like a nice little boy.”
Crowley said, “I’ll take you home.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “Just take me to a cab,” she said.
When Crowley finally found a cab, he climbed in after her. She didn’t protest too much. She said, “Now I’ll have to pay your cab fare back. But I guess it’s worth it. I live in a supposedly exclusive neighborhood, but the young hoods wander into it at this time of night and the doormen in the big apartment houses are usually snoozing.”
5.
Kate Maynard’s house was a remodeled private dwelling overlooking the East River in mid-Manhattan. There were three apartments in the house, one to a floor. The brick façade had been painted charcoal black. The door and the shutters were enameled bright red. There was a big ornamental brass knocker made in the shape of a spread eagle on the door. It was class. Rich people lived in houses like this, Crowley gloated. This one was really the payoff.