Lawrence Block - A Ticket To The Boneyard

"You're dressed now."

"Yes, I am. But before I was wearing a bra and panties, and now I'm not. So it's just me under these clothes."

"Just you."

"Just me and a little perfume." She swung around to face me. "And I brushed my teeth," she said, tilting her head, looking up at me with her lips slightly parted. Her eyes held mine for a moment, and then she closed them.

I took her in my arms.

It was quite wonderful, urgent yet unhurried, passionate yet comfortable, familiar yet surprising. We had the ease of old lovers and the eagerness of new ones. We had always been good together, and the years had been kind. We were better than ever.

Afterward she said, "I was thinking about this all night. I thought, gee, I like this guy, I always liked him, and wouldn't it be nice to find out if the gears still mesh after all these years. So in a manner of speaking I had this planned, but it was all in the mind. Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so."

"My mind was excited at the prospect. Then you told me I was beautiful and all of a sudden I'm standing there with wet panties."

"Honestly?"

"Yeah, instant arousal. Like magic."

"The way to a woman's heart—"

"Is through her panties. Can't you see new worlds opening up for you? All you have to do is tell us we're beautiful." She put her hand on my arm. "I think the reason it worked is you made me believe it. Not that I am, but that you think I am."

"You are."

"That's your story," she said, "and you stick to it. You know that story about Pinocchio? The girl sits on his face and says, 'Lie to me, lie to me.' "

"When did I ever lie to you?"

"Ah, baby," she said, "I figured it'd be fun to do this, and I knew it was going to happen one of these days, but who would have guessed we'd be so hot for each other?"

"I know."

"When was the last time we were together like this? The last time you were over here was three years ago, but we didn't go to bed then."

"No, it was a few years before then."

"So it could have been seven years ago?"

"Maybe even eight."

"Well, that explains it. The cells in your body change completely every seven years. Isn't that what they say?"

"That's what they say."

"So your cells and my cells had never met before. I never understood that, the cells changing every seven years. What the hell does it mean? If you get a scar you've still got it several years later."

"Or a tattoo. The cells change but the ink stays between them."

"How does it know how to do that?"

"I don't know."

"That's what I can't figure out. How does it know? You don't have any tattoos, do you?"

"No."

"And you call yourself an alcoholic. Isn't that when people get them, when they're tanked?"

"Well, it never struck me as the reasoned act of a sober man."

"No, I wouldn't think so. I read somewhere that a high percentage of murderers are heavily tattooed. Have you ever heard that?"

"It sounds familiar."

"I wonder why that would be. Something to do with self-image?"

"Maybe."

"Did Motley have any?"

"Self-image?"

"Tattoos, you dimwit."

"Sorry. Did he have any tattoos? I don't remember. You ought to know, you saw more of his body than I did."

"Thanks for reminding me. I don't remember any tattoos. He had scars on his back. Did I tell you about that?"

"Not that I remember."

"Bands of scar tissue across his back. He was probably physically abused in childhood."

"It happens."

"Uh-huh. Are you sleepy?"

"Sort of."

"And I'm not letting you doze off. That's the thing about fucking, it wakes women up and puts men to sleep. You're an old bear and I won't let you hibernate."

"Ummmmm."

"I'm glad you don't have any tattoos. I'll let you alone now. Good night, baby."

I slept, and sometime during the night I awoke. I was dreaming, and then the dream had slipped away beyond recall and I was awake. Her body was drawn close to mine and I could feel her heat, and I was breathing her smell. I ran a hand along her flank, feeling the wonderful smoothness of her skin, and the suddenness of my own physical response surprised me.

I filled my hands with her and stroked her, and after a moment she made a sound not unlike a cat's purr and rolled onto her back, shifting to accommodate me. I eased onto her and into her and our bodies found their rhythm and labored together, endlessly rocking.

Afterward she laughed softly, in the darkness. I asked her what was so funny.

" 'Repeatedly,' " she said.

In the morning I slipped out of bed and showered and dressed, then woke her to let me out and lock up after me. She wanted to make sure I had the sketch. I held up the cardboard core from a roll of paper towels, Galindez's effort coiled within.

"Don't forget I want it back," she said.

I told her I'd take good care of it.

"And of yourself," she said. "Promise?"

I promised.

I walked back to my hotel. On the way I found a copy shop that hadn't closed for the weekend and got them to run a hundred copies of the sketch. I dropped most of them in my room, along with the original, which I'd rolled and reinserted in its cardboard sleeve. I kept a dozen or so copies and took along a batch of business cards, the ones Jim Faber had printed up for me, not the ones from Reliable. These had my name and phone number, nothing else.

I took the Broadway local uptown and got off at Eighty-sixth. My first stop was the Bretton Hall, Motley's last known address at the time of his arrest. I already knew he wasn't registered there under his own name, but I tried his picture on the man behind the desk. He studied it solemnly and shook his head. I left the picture with him, along with one of my cards. "Be something in it for you," I said. "If you can help me out."

I worked my way up the east side of Broadway to 110th Street, hitting the residential hotels on Broadway itself and on the side streets. Then I crossed to the other side and did the same thing, working my way back down to Eighty-sixth and continuing on down to around Seventy-second Street. I stopped for a plate of black beans and yellow rice at a Cuban-Chinese lunch counter, then worked the east side of Broadway back up to where I'd started. I passed out more business cards than pictures, but I still managed to get rid of all but one of the copies of the sketch and wished I'd brought more. They'd only cost me a nickel apiece, and at that rate I could have afforded to paper the city with them.

A couple of people told me Motley looked familiar. At one welfare hotel, the Benjamin Davis on Ninety-fourth, the clerk knew him immediately.

"He was here," he said. "Man stayed here this summer."

"What dates?"

"I don't know as I could say. He was here more than a couple weeks, but I couldn't tell you when he came or when he moved out."

"Could you check your records?"

"I might could, if I recollected his name."

"His real name's James Leo Motley."

"You don't always get real names here. I don't suppose I have to tell you that." He flipped to the front of the register, but the volume only went back to early September. He went into a back room and came back with the preceding volume in hand. "Motley," he said to himself, and started paging through the entries. "I don't see it here. I got to say I don't think that was the name he used. I disremember his name, but I would know it if I heard it, you know what I'm saying? And when I hear Motley it don't ring no bells."

He went through the book all the same, running his finger down the pages slowly, moving his lips slightly as he scanned the names of lodgers. The whole process drew some attention, and a couple of others, tenants or hangers-on, drifted over to see what was occupying us.