Evan Hunter - Candyland

She keeps looking into the alley for a long while.

The couple on the stoop watch her as she walks past them again. Under the street lamp on the corner, she reaches into her tote for the list of telephone numbers she showed Manzetti earlier. She looks at her watch. It is almost a quarter to one in the morning.

Fuck it, she thinks, a girl was killed.

And dials Lois Ford's number.

The girl lives in a walkup between York Avenue and the East River Drive, just a few doors up from a Department of Sanitation garage. Huge white DSC garbage trucks are parked all up and down the street as Emma turns into it from York. On the Drive, at the end of the street, cars flash by in the early-morning hours, their headlights streaking the black river beyond. There are two private parking garages on the street as well, their entrance maws spilling light onto the sidewalk. But the street beyond, where Lois's red-brick building stands, is dark and forbidding, and there are only two lights burning in its face.

Maybe it's just her line of business, but Emma always feels she's being followed. She knows that only a very small percentage of rapes are committed by guys who jump out of the bushes and hold a knife to your throat, she knows that. Your so-called gentleman rapist — there are no gentleman rapists — is the one who climbs in your bedroom window after watching you undress and then tries to persuade you that you're really having a good time with him. "It's too bad we had to meet this way," he'll say. Suggesting that, gee, since you're having multiple orgasms here, we could be on a cruise ship to the Bahamas instead. Maybe one day we could even get married. Maybe I'll come back to see you again next week, would you like that? I know you would cause I can see you're smiling, aren't you?

Women learn to smile.

Stare at any woman for longer than ten seconds, she'll smile at you. This goes back to the Dark Ages, when rape wasn't called rape, it was called courtship. You smiled because you were begging for mercy. Please, sir, I'm a nice girl, I'm smiling. Please don't court me, sir.

Emma hates rapists.

And maybe because she'd put away so many of them, she's fearful of reprisal. Terrified that a gang of them will attack her. The East Side Rapists Association. Get the lady cop who's trying to make things hard for us, no pun intended. She always listens for phantom footsteps behind her. She listens for them now. There was a time in this city when you had to watch your perimeter all the time, day or night. This was maybe five, six years ago. You couldn't get too involved in a conversation you were having, you couldn't get too interested in a store window you were passing. You had to be aware all the time of what was happening in your immediate vicinity. You had to cover your own back. Emma supposes it's a lot better now, but she isn't sure how comfortable she'd feel here in this neighborhood at one o'clock in the morning if she didn't have a thirty-eight in her tote bag.

New York is a city on the make. The males here are predatory, the females receptive. Rapists use the status quo as an excuse. They'll tell you the victim wouldn't have been dressed that way if she wasn't asking for it. They'll tell you they're just like any other guy in this city, cruising the singles bars, reading the signals, reacting to the nightly tits-and-ass show. They'll always tell you the sex was consensual. Always. That's a word they learned when they were twelve, consensual. There's not a victim in the world who didn't give her consent beforehand. The second line out of any rapist's mouth is "It was consensual." The first line is "You've got the wrong man."

There is a dim light burning in the vestibule of Lois's building. Why any young girl would choose to live here where anyone can walk up from the Drive and into a building without a doorman and with fire escapes hanging up and down its face is beyond Emma. She checks the periphery, glancing first toward the Drive where the cars whiz past as if there is no speed limit in this city, and next toward York Avenue, where a pizzeria on the corner is still open. The street is deserted. She climbs the three flat steps to the front entrance door, tries the knob, and is not surprised when it opens to her touch.

The inner door is locked.

She looks for the name Ford in the row of bells set in the jamb to the right of the door, finds one for Ford, L. Going to fool a lot of would-be rapists, that initial for a first name. Going to make them think it's Louis Ford living here, or Lawrence Ford. Great protection for a girl living alone, that first initial. Ford, L, apartment 4C. She presses the white button, grips the knob on the inner door, looks over her shoulder, checking again. She knows how many rapes are committed in dimly lighted vestibules where a woman is fumbling to unlock the inner door. A buzz sounds, startling her. She shoves the door open, closes it behind her, begins climbing a steep flight of steps to the fourth floor. The hallways are dim. She would not live in this building for "all the tea in China," as her father is fond of saying. She is somewhat out of breath when she reaches the fourth-floor landing. She waits for a moment, her hand on the banister, breathing hard, before walking down the hall to 4C. She raps gently on the door; it's one in the morning.

"Who is it?" a voice asks.

The same voice she heard on the phone when she called earlier. Young, Somewhat breathy.

"Detective Boyle," she says.

"Just a minute, please."

She hears tumblers turning. Two locks, small wonder. Hears the bar of a Fox lock being dropped to the floor. Smart girl inside there. The door opens a crack, held by a safety chain, even smarter.

"Let me see your badge, please."

Somebody taught her well.

Emma flashes the tin.

The girl studies it. The chain comes off.

"Come in, please," she says.

This is what would be called a studio apartment if it weren't in a tenement. It is essentially one large room with double-hung windows at only one end of it, a bathroom to the left of the entrance door, a tiny kitchen just past that. There is a sofa-bed against one wall of the room that serves as bedroom, living room, and dining room combined, a television set on a stand opposite it. A small table and two chairs are set against the windows overlooking the street. Emma can see a fire escape beyond the windows. Access here would be like falling off Pier 8. On the street below, she can hear the warning beep-beep-beep of sanitation trucks backing up, maneuvering.

"Sorry to bother you so late at night," she says. The apartment is still, the building is still, she almost feels like whispering. "We're investigating a murder."

"Yes, you told me on the phone. It's Mr Thorpe, isn't it? Isn't that why you're here?"

"Yes," Emma says, surprised.

"Heather called me just after you did. You caught me just as I came in. I was out dancing."

She is still wearing what she wore earlier tonight, a beige cap-sleeve metallic-looking blouse over a brown nylon, cheetah-print skirt, ruffle-flounced at the hem. The skirt is short, the blouse scooped low over abundant breasts. Dark brown, ankle-strapped high-heeled sandals match her brown eyes and the brown hair falling straight and sleek to her shoulders and cut in bangs on her forehead. She is not a pretty girl, but she looks sexy and trendy, with just enough eye shadow, just enough blush, just enough lipstick on her pouty mouth. A rapist will tell you she shouldn't dress this way. He will tell you he's only human. He will tell you she's asking for it. He will tell you it was her fault. The victim's fault. I'm just a normal red-blooded American male, he will tell you. It was her fault. Besides, you've got the wrong man. And also, it was consensual.

"She said you think he may have killed someone."