Deciding that I was in the mood for Japanese, I went to Haru on Amsterdam. As I settled into a chair at the end of the sushi bar, I noticed, three spots down from me, a woman reading an Anne Rice novel.
She had reddish-brown hair and appeared to be about twenty pounds overweight. Her face was average-looking, but she had light blue eyes and there was something sexy about her. We started talking. She was an aspiring stand-up comic, and going by her dry, biting sense of humor that had me cracking up several times, I told her I thought she was going to make it big someday. As I finished my sashimi, I | continued chatting with her, enjoying her company. I knew I could've gotten her number and gone out with her sometime, if I wanted to. After paying for the sushi by breaking one of the hundreds Aunt Helen had lent me, I told the woman, "I hope we run into each other again sometime," and I left.
At a deli on Amsterdam, I bought a six-pack of Heineken and went to the video store on Columbus and rented Pretty Woman on DVD. Back in my apartment, I was drinking beer and watching the movie when I sensed Barbara's presence on the couch next to me.
I paused the movie and tried to concentrate on Barbara, attempting to somehow communicate with her. After a few minutes, I realized I was being ridiculous. Naturally, I'd felt a connection to Barbara while watching Pretty Woman, because we'd watched the movie so many times together. The fact that I'd downed a couple of beers might've been a factor too.
"I must be losing it," I said out loud.
I watched a few more minutes of the movie, and then the phone rang. I pressed pause again and let the machine answer. When I heard Angie's voice I went to the phone and picked up.
"Hi," I said.
"Oh… David," she said, as though she'd been mentally prepared to leave a message.
"Sorry, I just walked in," I said.
"Oh, okay," she said. "Hey, I just got this really weird phone call from this police detective. He said your girlfriend died yesterday."
Romero must've gotten Angie's number from Information.
"Actually, she committed suicide," I said. "Did the detective say died?"
"Yeah."
"Well, it was definitely a suicide. They think she OD'd."
"God, that's so awful, David. Why didn't you tell me about it last night?"
"I don't know."
"You poor thing. Did you… I mean did you like… discover the …"
"Yeah."
"Oh, my God."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm so sorry," Angie said. "I mean, that's so awful. Jesus… This detective guy said something weird, though."
"Weird?"
"Yeah," Angie said. "He said something about how your girlfriend thought you and I were dating."
"I know," I said. "I have no idea where she got that. She knew we were friendly at work I mean, I mentioned your name to her a few times, so she must've just made up stories to herself. Rebecca was very paranoid. She had a lot of problems… obviously. I guess I should've listened to you."
"Stop it," Angie said. "You had no way of knowing… You can't blame yourself when something like this happens."
"I know," I said.
"That's good," Angie said. "Anyway, I was just calling because this detective guy called me, you know, saying your girlfriend was dead, and then he said she thought you and I were… So I just wanted to call you and see if»
"I'm really sorry about all of this."
"Oh, that's okay," she said. "So how're you doing? I mean handling everything."
"I'm fine," I said, glancing at the paused scene from Pretty Woman and then at the spot on the couch where I'd imagined Barbara was sitting.
"I mean, I'm a little shaken up, of course, but all in all…"
"If you need a place to stay," Angie said. "I mean, to get out of your apartment for a while. I mean, you know you're welcome to come to my place."
"I appreciate that," I said, "and thanks for calling, but I'm fine really. I'll see you at work on Monday, okay?"
"Okay," she said.
I hung up with Angie and watched the rest of the movie. Toward the end, I had an unsettling feeling. I thought it might have to do with Rebecca, and then I remembered about Charlotte and Kenny. At least they hadn't called me, or tried to get in touch, but I wasn't sure if this was necessarily good news.
Sunday morning I decided I couldn't procrastinate any longer I had to call the hospital morgue and start making arrangements for Rebecca's funeral.
"Hello," I said to the woman I'd been transferred to. "My name's David Miller. I believe you're holding the body of my girlfriend, Rebecca Daniels."
"Hold on," the bored-sounding woman said. When she returned she said,
"Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend already made arrangements for those remains."
"That's impossible."
"Are you Raymond Ramirez?"
"Ray called you?"
"A Raymond Ramirez called yesterday and made arrangements for those remains. Is there a problem?"
"No, there's no problem," I said. "Thanks."
I was relieved that I didn't have to plan or pay for Rebecca's funeral.
I doubted Ray would invite me, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. Thanks to Ray, all of Rebecca's friends probably blamed me for her death and not having to go would help me to avoid an uncomfortable situation.
But it was funny that Ray had claimed to be Rebecca Daniels's boyfriend. For all I knew, he wasn't lying. My suspicions could have been right all along Ray wasn't gay, and he and Rebecca had been screwing since I'd known her.
It was a beautiful day warmer and less breezy than yesterday. I went out and bought bagels, tofu cream cheese, and the Sunday Times, then returned to my living room and made a fresh pot of decaf and turned on the stereo to a light jazz station. As I was relaxing, I realized that if Rebecca hadn't killed herself, we'd probably be having one of our violent fights this morning.
As I was skimming an article in the magazine section on the baby's brain, I sensed Barbara next to me.
"How's it going, Barb?" I said to the empty space to my left. I waited, as if giving her time to answer, then said,
"Yeah, I'm pretty good, thanks. Recovering, anyway. These past few days have been out of control." I waited again, then said, "So are you really here or what?" I was hoping she'd give me a sign, but there was nothing. I said, "Okay, if you're really here, prove it to me do something. Move the Arts and Leisure section." I stared at the Arts amp; Leisure on top of the pile of papers on the floor, waiting for it to rustle. I thought it moved a little, but I was probably just imagining it.
After breakfast, I went out to a moving supply store and bought ten cardboard boxes. Back at home I put the boxes together, and then I started packing Rebecca's clothes, CDs, shoes, and other belongings.
One thing for sure with Rebecca gone, I'd have a lot less damage on my credit cards. I was so excited about having the bedroom to myself again that the couple of hours or so that it took to pack all of Rebecca's crap passed by quickly. I stacked the boxes in an out-of-the-way spot, in a small alcove in the living room. Although I was anxious to get the boxes out of the apartment, I figured I'd wait a couple of weeks and then call Ray and give him a chance to pick them up; if he didn't want them, I'd just have to get a thrift shop to come.
I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, reading more of the Times, and watching TV.
"Nothing's on," I said. Then, turning to golf on ESPN, I said, "I know, you hate golf," and switched to something else.
I realized that, semi consciously I'd been making occasional comments to Barbara all day. While I knew that AS THE OFFICERS started searching the apartment, I tried to make out like I was confused and completely innocent, asking Romero all the logical questions Who's Charlotte O'Dougal? What does this have to do with me? Can you just tell me what the hell's going on here? all the time hoping, although I knew I was kidding myself, that maybe Charlotte O'Dougal wasn't the Charlotte I knew. It didn't matter what I said, though, because, for some reason, Romero barely seemed interested in me. He just kept telling me to sit down and relax and that he'd fill me in later.