Lawrence Block - A Ticket To The Boneyard

"I know."

"Rough-hewn from granite. What did he mean about going to mass in the morning? Is that code for something?"

I shook my head. "His father was a meatcutter in the Washington Street market. Every once in a while Mick likes to put on his father's old apron and go to the eight o'clock mass at St. Bernard's."

"And you go with him?"

"I did once."

"You bring a girl to the most remarkable places," she said, "and introduce her to the most remarkable people."

Outside again, she said, "You live near here, don't you, Matt? You can just put me in a cab. I'll be all right."

"I'll see you home."

"You don't have to."

"I don't mind."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," I said. "Besides, I'm going to need that sketch Galindez made. I want to get it photocopied first thing in the morning and start showing it to people."

"Oh, right."

There were plenty of cabs now, and I flagged one and we rode across town in silence. Her doorman opened the cab door for us, then hurried ahead to hold the door to the lobby.

As we rode up in the elevator she said, "You could have had the cab wait."

"There are cabs all over the place."

"That's true."

"It's easier to get another one than pay his waiting time. Besides, I might walk home."

"At this hour?"

"Sure."

"It's a long walk."

"I like long walks."

She unfastened both locks, the Segal deadbolt and the Fox police lock, and when we were inside she fastened them all again, the two she'd just unlocked and the other, the police lock that could only be engaged from inside. It was a lot to go through given that I was going to be leaving in a minute, but I was pleased to see her do it. I wanted her to get in the habit of setting all the locks the minute she walked into the place. And not just most of the time. All of the time.

"Don't forget the cab," she said.

"What about the cab?"

"All the cabs," she said. "You want to keep track, so I can reimburse you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I said.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't bother with that kind of chickenshit," I said. "I don't go through that when I have a client."

"What do you do?"

"I set some kind of arbitrary flat rate and it includes my expenses. I can't make myself keep receipts and write down every time I get on the subway. It drives me crazy."

"What about when you do a day's work for Reliable?"

"I keep track as well as I can, and it makes me a little bit nuts, but I put up with it because I have to. I may be done working for them anyway, after the conversation I had with one of the bosses this morning."

"What happened?"

"It's not important. He was a little miffed that I was taking some time off, and I'm not sure he'll want me back when it's over. Then again, I'm not sure I'll want to go back."

"Well, you'll work it out," she said. She walked over to the coffee table, picked up a little bronze statue of a cat, and turned it over in her hands. "I don't mean keep receipts," she said. "I don't mean itemize everything to the penny. I just want you to get paid back for whatever out-of-pocket expenses you have. I don't care how you arrive at a figure, just so you don't cheat yourself."

"I understand."

She walked over to the window, still passing the little cat from hand to hand. I moved alongside her and we looked at Queens together. "Someday," I said, "all of this will be yours."

"Funny man. I want to thank you for tonight."

"No thanks are due."

"I think they are. You saved me from a severe case of cabin fever. I had to get out of here, but it was more than that. I had a good time."

"So did I."

"Well, I'm grateful. Taking me to places in your neighborhood, Paris Green and Grogan's. You didn't have to let me into your world like that."

"I had at least as good a time as you did," I said. "And it doesn't exactly hurt my image to be seen with a beautiful woman on my arm."

"I'm not beautiful."

"The hell you're not. What do you want, reassurance? You must know what you look like."

"I know I'm not a bow-wow," she said. "But I'm certainly not beautiful."

"Oh, come on. How'd you get all those houses across the river?"

"You don't have to look like Elizabeth Taylor to make it in life, for God's sake. You ought to know that. You just have to be a person a man'll want to spend time with. I'll tell you a secret. It's mental work."

"Whatever you say."

She turned away, put the cat back on the coffee table. With her back to me she said, "Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

"I've always thought so."

"That's so sweet."

"I'm not trying to be sweet. I just—"

"I know."

Neither of us said anything for a moment, and the room turned deeply silent. There had been a moment like that in the film we saw, when the music stopped and the sound track went soundless. It heightened the suspense, as I recall.

I said, "I'd better take that sketch."

"You'd better. I want to put it in something, though, so it won't smudge. Let me go pee first, okay?"

While she was gone, I stood in the middle of the room looking at James Leo Motley as Ray Galindez had drawn him and trying to read the expression in his eyes. That didn't make much sense, given that I was looking at an artist's drawing instead of a photo, and that Motley's eyes had been opaque and unreadable even in person.

I wondered what he was doing out there. Maybe he was holed up in an abandoned building sucking on a crack pipe. Maybe he was living with a woman, hurting her with the tips of his fingers, taking her money, telling her she liked it. Maybe he was out of town, shooting craps in Atlantic City, lying on a beach in Miami.

I went on gazing at the sketch, trying to let my old animal instincts tell me where he was and what he was doing, and Elaine returned to the room and moved to stand beside me. I felt the gentle pressure of her shoulder against my side and breathed in her scent.

She said, "I thought a cardboard tube. That way you wouldn't have to fold it, you could just roll it, and it won't get smudged."

"How do you happen to have a cardboard tube on hand? I thought you didn't keep stuff."

"I don't, but if I pull the rest of the paper towels off the roll I'll have a tube."

"Clever."

"I thought so."

"If you think it's worth it."

"How much is a roll of paper towels? A buck nineteen, something like that?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it's something like that. Of course it's worth it." She extended a forefinger, touched the sketch. "When this is over," she said, "I want this."

"What for?"

"I want it matted and framed. Remember what he said, 'Suitable for framing'? He was joking, but that's because he doesn't take his work seriously yet. This is art."

"You're serious."

"You bet I am. I should have gotten him to sign it. Maybe I'll get in touch with him later, ask him if he'd be willing. What do you think?"

"I think he'd be flattered. Listen, I was going to have a few Xerox copies made, but now you're giving me ideas. What I'll do is I'll run an edition of fifty and number them."

"Very funny," she said. She moved her hand and laid it gently on top of mine. "Funny man."

"That's me."

"Uh-huh."

There was more of that utter silence, and I cleared my throat to break it. "You put perfume on," I said.

"Yes, I did."

"Just now?"

"Uh-huh."

"It smells nice."

"I'm glad you like it."

I turned to put the sketch on the table, then straightened up again. My arm moved around her waist and my hand settled on her hip. She sighed almost imperceptibly and leaned against me, her head on my shoulder.

"I feel beautiful," she said.

"You should."

"I didn't just put on perfume," she said. "I got undressed."