"Put money in thy purse?"
"That's some kind of quote," Patricia Utley said, "but I don't know from where. Yes. Of course, put money in thy purse."
"You management types are all the same," I said. "Anti-romantics."
"But the whores aren't," Patricia said. "That may be the trick of it."
"I'm not anti-romantic," I said.
"You're male," she said. "You can afford it."
"If I were female would it lead me to whoredom?"
She shook her head. "No, I don't think so." We reached Sixth Avenue.
"So it's not the whole trick."
She was looking for a cab. "Maybe not."
"Everyone wants love," I said. "Not everyone whores."
She gestured toward a cab. It zipped past us. "Shit," she said. She looked for another one. Downtown a block two guys in tan raincoats flagged the next cab. She exhaled softly and turned and looked at me. Under her careful makeup I could see lines at her mouth and eyes. Natural light is tough. "I'm not a philosopher," she said. "You don't have to know how coal was made in order to mine it. But I think April's future will be a lot brighter if you get her out of that call service, and to do that, I think you're going to have to get her away from a pimp that she thinks loves her."
"Pimps don't love anybody," I said.
"You know that. I know that. Whores don't know that."
"Did you always know that?" I said.
A cab angled across the traffic from the east side of Sixth Avenue and stopped.
"You want a ride uptown?" Patricia said.
"No, thanks," I said. "I like to walk. You going to answer my question?"
She said, "No," and got in the cab. I closed the door behind her and the cab pulled back into the traffic.
2
I went another block east to Fifth Avenue and walked slowly uptown to the St. Regis Hotel on 55th Street. I had a room there. I noticed that the glitz incidence intensifies above 49th Street and attributed that to the presence of Rockefeller Center. It was my most useful insight.
It was five o'clock when I got to my room. I turned on the TV and watched the news on WNBC. I studied the roam service menu. It was too early for supper but it's important to plan ahead. At five-thirty I called April at the number Patricia Utley had given me.
A woman's voice said, "Tiger Lilies."
"April Kyle, please."
"May I say who's calling?"
"Spenser."
"Thank you, Mr. Spenser, would you hold, please?"
Some easy-listening Muzak came onto the phone. I held it away from my ear. If you listened close for long, it gave you cavities. The Muzak stopped. April's voice came on the phone.
"Spenser?"
"With an's, " I said. "Like the poet."
"Well… how are you?"
"Almost perfect," I said. "I'm in town and want to take you to dinner."
"I… Well, I'm working tonight. I'm… we're not supposed to go out on nonbusiness dates."
"How about breakfast? You allowed personal breakfasts?"
"Breakfast?"
April hadn't gotten too much smarter.
"Or brunch, or lunch, or an afternoon snack, or juice and graham crackers after recess," I said. "I'd like to see you."
"Well, breakfast, if it's not too early. I, um, I get to sleep real late usually."
"Name the time," I said.
"Well, ah, could it be, like noon?"
"Sure. I'll pick you up."
"No. No, I'll meet you."
"Okay," I said. "How about the Brasserie. You know where that is?"
"Sure. Okay. I'll meet you there at noon."
"You'll recognize me," I said. "You haven't forgotten what I look like?"
"No." She giggled. "You look like a nice thug."
"Gee," I said, "you remembered."
"Yes. See you tomorrow. Bye."
It was five-forty. Susan's last appointment was at five-ten. She wouldn't be available until after six. I watched the news some more. The longer I put off dinner, the later it would be before I had nothing to do. If I timed it right, I could call Susan and then have dinner and then be sleepy and go to bed. I read the menu again. I'd had a big lunch. It would be selfindulgent to have a big dinner. I didn't have to eat and drink to entertain myself. I could go out. New York was a spring festival of things to do. I could go down to 42nd Street and buy a nice hand-painted tie.
The five o'clock news ended. The six o'clock news began. The guys who read the news at six had deeper voices. Authoritative. If that trend continued, the guys who read the eleven o'clock news would sound like Paul Robeson.
I called Susan. Her voice came on after the second ring.
"Hello, this is Dr. Silverman. I can't answer the phone now, but if you have a message for me please leave it at the sound of the beep."
I said, "Shit." But it was before the beep, so it didn't count. After the beep I said, "Doctor, I have a problem with priapism and need an appointment with you as soon as I can get one. I'm at the St. Regis Hotel. Call me to set up a time." Then I hung up and watched the news some more. Not a hell of a lot had happened since I'd watched it before. I called room service and ordered a Cobb Salad and a couple of bottles of Heineken.
The phone rang. I answered it. Susan said, "This is Dr. Silverman. Take a cold shower and call me in the morning."
I said, "Hello, ducky. How has your day been?"
"Some of those people are crazy," she said.
"Your patients?"
"Yes."
"But you're a psychologist. Don't you sort of expect that?"
"My last appointment told me he didn't believe in psychotherapy. It makes you dependent, he says."
"So what's he going to do instead?"
"Snort cocaine, I believe."
"Oh."
"Have you found April?" Susan said.
"I talked with her on the phone, and we're having lunch, she says breakfast, tomorrow noon."
"Is she all right?"
"She sounds all right, but Patricia Utley says she's headed for trouble." I repeated my conversation with Patricia.
"And if she's not willing to leave?" Susan said.
"I could overpower her and bring her to you."
"And hold her while we did therapy?"
"Yeah."
"Even though your neck is considerably bigger than your brain," Susan said, "you probably know that you cannot do therapy with an unwilling patient."
"I was afraid you'd spoil it."
"So what will you do?" Susan said.
"Tell her what I fear, and get out of the way. She'll do what she wants to," I said.
"Or needs to," Susan said.
"Or has to."
"Which makes her like anyone else," Susan said. "When are you coming home?"
"I suppose it depends on April," I said.
"Not too much should depend on April, I think," Susan said.
"I know," I said.
"I miss you," Susan said.
"Yes," I said. "Isn't it lovely."
3
The Brasserie is on East 53rd Street, right underneath the Four Seasons, a few steps down into a low-ceilinged room with a horseshoe counter to the left and tables with red-checkered tablecloths to the right. It was kind of a semi-elegant French-flavored diner and it was always open.
I had us a table near the wall when April came in and looked around. There's a streetlevel landing before you come down into the room, and it presents a nearly irresistible platform. Most people posed on it when they came in. April posed a bit longer than most. She wasn't pudgy anymore. She was highfashion thin. With very bright makeup, well applied and stark. Very current. Her hair was shoulder length. She was wearing a pink coverall with cropped pants over an aqua jersey top. There were big pink and aqua beads around her neck and matching earrings. The collar of her black tweed jacket was turned up and she was wearing pink-rimmed Elvis Costello sunglasses.
When she finished her pose, she looked at me and smiled brilliantly and came down the stairs.
I stood and she put her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. She smelled good. She looked good. I held her chair for her. She sat.
"Oh, it's so nice to see you," April said. "What are you doing here?"
"Think about eating," I said. "Then I'll tell you."