There was a small wait in line, and then he found himself facing the bartender.
"Scotch, please. Water."
"Any preference?"
Matt looked and saw that whatever else it did, the Opera Ball Club or whatever the hell it was really served fine booze.
"Famous Grouse, please. Easy on the water."
He became aware, in less time than it takes to tell, first of an exotic perfume, then of an expanse of white flesh that swelled with exquisite grace before disappearing beneath a delicate brassiere, and then of warm breath on his ear.
"I hope you won't be offended by my saying so, but your gun is showing," the voice behind the warm breath on his ear said in almost a whisper.
It was the blonde in the pageboy.
For the first time he noticed that she was wearing a hat.
If half an ounce of black silk and silk netting can be called a hat, he thought.
What the hell did she say about a gun? God, I bet she has nice teats!
"I beg your pardon?"
She smiled, and laughed softly, and tugged on his arm, pulling his head down.
"Your gun," she said. "It's showing."
This time when he smelled her breath, he picked up the smell of alcohol. Gin, he thought. He looked down at his leg and saw that his trouser leg was hiked up, caught by the butt of the pistol in his ankle holster.
Shit!
When I had to climb out of the goddamn car because of that asshole in the Cadillac in both my parking places, that's when it happened.
He squatted and rearranged his trouser leg.
"Thank you."
"I don't think anybody else noticed," she said. "It was only because I was going downstairs that I saw it. You know what I mean?"
"Thank you for telling me."
"Could I ask you a question? Out of pure idle-there being not much else to think about around here-curiosity?"
"Sure?"
"How many of you are there here tonight?"
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
"How many do you see?"
"That's why I'm asking," she said, laughing. "I'm curious."
Matt held up three fingers.
"Let's start with the easy things. How many fingers?"
"Three, wise guy," she said. "And I only see one of you. That's why I'm asking how many others there are of you. Just out of idle curiosity."
"As far as I know, I am the only one like me here tonight."
"The only one in regular clothes, you mean."
"What?"
"I mean not counting him," she said, pointing to a Holmes Security man taking invitations by the door, "and the one I saw you talking to upstairs."
"Oh. I'm not a rent-a-cop. I had no idea what you were talking about."
"Then what are you doing walking around with a gun strapped to your leg? Yourankle? "
"I'm a cop!"
"Are you really?"
He nodded.
"A detective, you mean? There are police here, too, in addition towhat did you say, the rent-a-cops?"
"No. Not a detective. A cop. Off duty."
"You're pulling my leg. Aren't you?"
"Boy Scout's honor," Matt said, holding up three fingers.
"And you're active in, a sponsor, of the Cancer Society Ball?"
"Regretfully, no."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"You mean,here?" Matt said, and nodded his head to take in the lobby.
"Yes."
"I got off the elevator and a lady told me she was so glad I could come, pinned this thing on me, and handed me a glass of champagne."
She laughed and took his arm, which caused contact between his elbow and her bosom.
"All right, wise guy," she said. "What were you doing getting off the elevator?"
"I live here," Matt said.
"You live here?"
He nodded. "In what Charles Dickens would call the 'garret.'"
She let go of his arm and stepped in front of him and looked at him intently.
"And your name is Matt-Matthew-Payne, right?"
"Guilty," Matt said. "You have the advantage, mademoiselle, on me."
"Don't go away," she said, and then asked. "What is that?"
"Famous Grouse."
He watched as she went to the bar and returned with another drink for him, and what, to judge by the gin on her breath, was a martini on the rocks.
She handed him the Scotch and took a swallow of her martini.
"I needed that," she said. "The way they were talking about you-'Poor Patricia'sBoy'-I thought you'd have acne and wear short pants."
"Who was talking about me?"
"It was the only interesting conversation I heard here tonight. You' ll never guess who lives upstairs: Poor Patricia Payne's Boy, they sent him to UP and he paid them back by joining the cops right after he graduated. He's the one who shot the serial rapist in the head."
"Oh."
"And it's madam, not mademoiselle, by the way. I'm sort of married."
"What does 'sort of married' mean?"
"Among other things, that he's not here tonight," she said. "Can we let it go at that?"
"Sure."
"Did you really?"
"Did I really what?"
"Shoot that man in the head?"
"Jesus!"
"I'll take that as a yes," she said, and took another sip of her martini. "Is that the gun you did it with?"
"Does it matter?"
"Answer the question."
"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Can we change the subject to something more pleasant, like cancer, for example?"
"So you live upstairs, do you? In what Charles Dickens would call the 'garret'?"
"That's right."
"Are you going to ask me if I want to go to your apartment and look at your etchings, Matthew Payne?"
"I don't have any etchings," he said.
"I'll settle for a look at your gun," she said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," she said. "You show me what I want to see, and I will show you what you-judging by the way you've been looking down my front-want to see."
"Jesus!"
"Actually, it's Helene," she said, and took his hand. "Deal?"
"If you're serious," he said. "The elevator is over there."
"With a little bit of luck, there will be no one on it but you and me," Helene said. "Do you have some gin, or should I bring this with me?"
"I have gin," he said.
She put her glass down, put her hand under his arm, and steered him to the elevator.
When it stopped at the lobby floor, the tiny elevator already held four people, but they squeezed on anyway. Matt was aware of the pressure of her breasts on his back, and was quite sure that it was intentional.
On the third floor, he unlocked the door to his stairwell and motioned for her to precede him. At the top, when he had turned on the lights, she turned to him and smiled.
"Dickens would have said 'tiny garret.'"
"And he would have been right."
"Make me a drink-martini?"
"Sure."
"But first, show me the gun."
He squatted, took the revolver from its holster, opened the cylinder, and ejected the cartridges.
"Those are the bullets, the same kind?"
"Cartridges," he corrected automatically.
"Let me see one."
He dropped one in her hand. She inhaled audibly as she touched it, and then rolled it around in the upturned palm of her hand.
"Show me how it goes in," she said. He took the cartridge back and dropped it in the cylinder.
"It takes five," he said.
He unloaded it again, dropped the cartridge in his pocket, and handed her the revolver.
As he poured gin over ice in his tiny kitchen, he could see her looking at the gun from all angles. Finally, she sniffed it, and then sat down, disappearing from sight behind the bookcase that separated the "living area" from the "dining area," at least on the architect's plans.
When he went into the living area, she was sitting on the edge of his couch. The pistol was on the coffee table. She was running her fingers over it. To do so, she had to lean forward, which served to give him a good look down her dress.