Ed McBain - Cinderella

At four-oh-seven that afternoon, at which time Joanna was on the phone again to say it was okay for tonight, Jimmy Legs was in a bar called The Yellow Bird, listening to a piano player slaughtering some very good Cole Porter tunes, and waiting for a man named Harry Stagg to join him. Jimmy was not here to while away the time. Jimmy had business to discuss with Harry, and the business was finding a hooker who had copped his brother’s gold Rolex.

Stagg came into the bar at about four-ten, five minutes earlier than he was due. He was a very punctual person, Stagg, and he was also very tall — though, actually, everybody looked tall to Jimmy. He was wearing a white linen jacket over pastel-colored slacks the same color as his open-throated shirt. He was wearing white Italian-looking shoes with no socks. He looked like one of the cops on “Miami Vice.” Needed a shave, too, just like that cop on “Miami Vice.” That was a show Jimmy hated because it made cops look like heroes instead of the pricks they really were. “Hill Street Blues,” too. Propaganda. He stood up as Stagg approached the table.

“Hey, how you doin’?” he said, and took Stagg’s hand. The men shook hands briefly. Stagg looked over at the piano as if wondering what had died inside it. He ordered a Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks from the waiter who came over to the table and then looked over at the piano again.

“Where’d that guy learn to play?” he asked Jimmy.

“San Quentin, sounds like,” Jimmy said.

“It does sound like it,” Stagg said. “They remodeled this place, din’t they? This used to be called Franco’s, dinnit?”

“I think so.”

“Yeah, Franco’s, I think. So now it’s The Yellow Bird, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a big difference, Franco’s and The Yellow Bird.”

“Yeah.”

The waiter brought two Johnnie Walker Reds on the rocks to the table.

“I only ordered one,” Stagg said.

“The second one is complimentary, sir,” the waiter said.

“I’da known that, I’da ordered the black,” Stagg said.

The waiter smiled. “Next time, sir,” he said, and walked off.

“They should tell you in advance it’s two for one,” Stagg said. “Give you a chance to order premium stuff.”

“Nobody tells you nothin’ nowadays,” Jimmy said.

“Whole fuckin’ world’s fucked up,” Stagg said. “Terrorists, all kindsa shit.” He sipped at the Scotch and then said, “So what’s on your mind?”

“There’s somebody I’m lookin’ for,” Jimmy said. “She’s a hooker stole my brother’s watch.”

“Oh, okay,” Stagg said. “Because first, when you said you were lookin’ for somebody, I thought Why’s he comin’ to me, am I the Missing Persons Bureau? But then you say she stole your brother’s watch, and I get it.” He took a pad from the inner pocket of the white jacket. He took a pencil from the same pocket. “What kinda watch?” he asked.

“A gold Rolex,” Jimmy said. “It cost eight grand in Tiffany’s, New York.”

“That’s some watch,” Stagg said.

“Solid gold,” Jimmy said. “The band and everything. Eight grand in Tiffany’s.”

“That ain’t cornflakes, eight grand.”

“My brother’s ready to kill her,” Jimmy said, “a watch like that.”

“Well, let me see I can find it for you, the watch. Maybe he won’t want to kill her once he gets the watch back. Lots of people, they say they’re gonna kill people, they only mean they want their goods back, you know? Let me ask around, see what I can find out, okay? I give it my best shot, we see what happens, okay?”

“His initials are on the back of the case,” Jimmy said.

“Good, I’m glad you told me that,” Stagg said. “What are his initials?”

“D. L. For David Larkin.”

Stagg wrote down the initials, and then said, “There’s a Larkin Boats on the Trail. Is that the same Larkin?”

“Yeah, that’s my brother.”

“No wonder he can afford a watch costs eight grand,” Stagg said. “What’d he do, change his name? ’Cause your name’s Largura, ain’t it?”

“ I’m the one changed my name,” Jimmy said, and smiled.

“So did I,” Stagg said. “My name used to be Stagione, that means ‘season’ in Italian, I changed it to Stagg. That’s better than Stagione, Stagg. Harry Stagg, I like that better than Harry Stagione, don’t you?”

He blinked at Jimmy and then said, “Whattya mean you changed your name? From Larkin? To Largura?”

“Yeah, I wanted an Italian name,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t like havin’ a Wasp name.”

Matthew picked up Joanna at seven o’clock.

No sign of Susan anywhere around the house.

In the car, he casually asked, “Did your mother go out with Peter?”

“Yes,” Joanna answered.

Peter the Pest.

Suddenly jealous of Peter the Pest, né Peter Nelson Rothman, the main man in Susan’s life for the past... what? Two, three months? None of Matthew’s business, of course. She was no longer his wife, she was his former wife, his ex wife. Still, it wasn’t right, was it, for a situation to have become so transparent that your fourteen-year-old daughter could automatically assume that if Mommy had a date with Peter the Pest then she’d be free to spend the night at your house because when Mommy dated Peter she spent the night at his house.

Well, listen, it was none of his business.

Free country, woman wanted to date the town’s...

The thing he couldn’t understand, though, was how she could do this the very night after they’d...

Well, listen.

No strings on her, she was entitled to whatever...

But, damn it, she was the one who’d...

Well, what the hell.

But truth was truth, and she was the one who’d engineered their weekend together. Told Joanna she’d call him to explain about the Palm Beach trip, never called, was waiting instead to pounce when he got to the house Friday evening, fresh out of the shower and looking good enough to eat. Oh my, didn’t Joanna call you? She said she would call. Well, just so it shouldn’t be a total loss, let’s go to bed together, okay?

So tonight she was seeing Peter the Pest.

Who once, on the tennis court, told Matthew he could beat him no matter what Matthew did.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Peter said. “You can hit the ball wherever you want, anyplace on the court. When I hit the ball back, I’ll hit it directly to your forehand, right where you’re standing. And I’ll still beat you.”

Matthew was offended.

He told Peter he didn’t want to play with him anymore, and walked off the court.

But that wasn’t why she shouldn’t be dating him tonight. It was simply... well.

Well, damn it.

Really.

“So will you be sleeping over?” he asked.

“No, she’ll be coming home early,” Joanna said.

Matthew tried to keep from smiling. It was not easy.

He thought Jesus Christ, I’m falling in love with my own wife!

All through dinner, Joanna was uncommonly silent.

Matthew had known this kid for a long, long time, and he knew better than to pry when she was in one of her dark and pensive moods. Usually, he waited her out. Eventually, she told him what was bothering her. Tonight she did not seem about to tell him anything.

She had ordered clam chowder and the soft-shell crabs. He had ordered oysters on the half shell and the broiled swordfish. That was at seven-thirty. It was now close to eight-thirty. She had said perhaps three dozen words in the last hour.

“Could we get some lemon wedges?”

And...

“My fork is dirty.”