She'd call the insurance company on Friday morning.
Tell them her husband had been murdered.
Make her claim.
She didn't expect any problems. Sensational case like this one? Already on television and in one of the early morning papers she'd bought at the terminal. MAGICIAN MURDERED, the headline read. Bigger headline than he'd ever had in his life. Had to get himself killed to get it.
Two hundred thousand dollars, she thought.
Invest it at ten percent, that'd bring them twenty thousand a year, more than enough to live on like a king and queen. A maharajah and maharanee was more like it. Go to the beach every day, have someone doing the cleaning and the cooking, have a man polishing the car and doing the marketing, buy herself a dozen saris, learn how to wrap them, maybe get herself a little diamond for her nose. Even at eight percent, the money would bring in sixteen thousand a year. More than enough.
And all they'd had to do for it was kill him.
The train rumbled through the night, lulling her to sleep.
He approached Eileen almost the moment she sat down at one of the tables.
"Hi," he said. "Remember me?"
No eyeglasses, no tattoo, but otherwise their man down to his socks. The eyeglasses he'd worn on his earlier outings could have been windowpane. The tattoo could have been a decal. Her heart was beating wildly. She didn't realize until this moment just how frightened she really was. You're a cop, she told herself. Am I? she wondered.
"I'm sorry," she said, "have we met?"
"Mind if I sit down?"
"Please do."
The prim and proper hooker.
But crossed her legs anyway, to show him thigh clear to Cincinnati.
"I'm Linda," she said. "Are you looking for a good time?"
"That depends," he said.
"On what?"
"On what you consider a good time."
"That's entirely up to you."
"I noticed you when I was coming in," he said. "You were leaving with a little Puerto Rican."
"You're very observant," she said.
"You're a beautiful woman, how could I miss you?"
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Howie."
"Howie what?"
"Howie gonna keep 'em down on the farm."
He had them in stitches. Shanahan's words. Kept telling them jokes. A stand-up comic with a knife.
"So what're you interested in, Howie?"
"Let's talk," he said.
"Candy store's open," she said. "You want to know how much the goodies cost?"
"Not right now."
"Just say when, Howie."
He folded his hands on the tabletop. Looked into her eyes.
"How long have you been hooking, Linda?"
"First time tonight," she said. "In fact, I'm a virgin."
Not a smile. Not even the hint of a smile. Some stand-up comic. Just sat there looking into her eyes, big hands folded on the table.
"How old are you?"
"You should never ask a woman her age, Howie."
"Early thirties, in there?"
"Who knows?" she said, and rolled her eyes.
"What's your real name?"
"What's yours?"
"I told you. Howie."
"But you didn't tell me Howie what."
"Howie Cantrell," he said.
"Eileen Burke," she said.
The name would mean nothing to him. If he was their man, he'd learn soon enough who Eileen Burke was. If he was looking for action, her name wouldn't mean beans to him.
"Why are you using Linda?" he asked.
"I hate the name Eileen," she said. Which wasn't true. She'd always thought the name Eileen was perfect for the person she was. "Linda sounds more glamorous."
"You're glamorous enough," he said, "you don't need a phony name. May I call you Eileen?"
"You can call me Lassie if you like."
Still no smile. Totally devoid of a sense of humor. So where was the comedian? Flat, steel-gray eyes reflecting nothing. But were they the eyes of a triple murderer?
"So where're you from, Howie?"
"I'll ask the questions," he said.
"Now you sound like a cop."
"I used to be one."
Bullshit, she thought.
"Oh?" she said. "Where?"
"Philadelphia," he said. "Do you see that girl sitting at the bar?"
"Which one?" Eileen asked.
"In the black skirt. With the short dark hair."
He was indicating Annie.
"What about her?"
"I think she's a cop," he said.
Eileen burst out laughing.
"Jenny?" she said. "You've got to be kidding."
"You know her?"
"She's been hooking since she was thirteen. Jenny a cop? Wait'll I tell her!"
"I already told her."
"Mister, let me tell you something about hookers and cops, okay?"
"I know all about hookers and cops."
"Right, you're a cop yourself."
"Used to be one," he said. "I can always tell a cop."
"Have it your way," she said. "Jenny's a cop, you're a cop, I'm a cop, when you're in love the whole world's a cop."
"You don't believe I used to be a cop, do you?"
"Howie, I'll believe anything you tell me. You tell me you used to be a Presbyterian minister, I'll believe you. An astronaut, a spy, a…"
"I was with the Vice Squad in Philly."
"So what happened? Didn't you like the work?"
"It was good work."
"So how come you ain't doing it no more?"
"They fired me."
"Why?"
"Who knows?" he said, and shrugged.
"Can't stay away from the job, though, huh?"
"What does that mean?"
"Well, here you are, Howie."
"Just thought I'd drop by."
"You been here before?"
First leading question she'd asked him.
"Couple of times."
"Guess you like it, huh?"
"It's okay."
"Come on, Howie, tell me the truth." Teasing him now. "You really dig the girls here, don't you?"
"They're okay. Some of them."
"Which ones?"
"Some of them. Lots of these girls, you know, they're in this against their will, you know."
"Oh, sure."
"I mean, they were forced into it, you know."
"You sure you were a Vice cop, Howie?"
"Yes."
"I mean, you sound almost human."
"Well, it's true, you know. A lot of these girls would get out of it if they knew how."
"Tell me the secret. How do I get out of it, Howie?"
"There are ways."
A big, wiry, gray-haired guy walked over from the bar. Had to be in his mid-fifties, grizzled look, sailor's swagger. Wearing jeans and white sneakers, blue T-shirt, gold crucifix hanging on a chain outside the shirt, metal-buttoned denim jacket open over it. Right arm in a plaster cast and a sling. Shaggy gray eyebrows, knife scar angling downward through the right brow and partially closing the right eye. Brown eyes. Thick nose broken more than once. Blue watch cap tilted onto the back of his head. Shock of gray hair hanging on his forehead. He pulled out a chair, sat, and said, "Buzz off, Preacher."
Howie looked at him.
"Buzz off, I wanna talk to the lady."
"Hey mister," Eileen said, "we're…"