Lawrence Block - A Ticket To The Boneyard

" God damn it," she said. "We're divorced. I'm married to somebody else. Doesn't that make a difference?"

"I don't know," I said. "He may be like the Catholic church. He may not recognize divorce."

We talked some more, and then I had her put her husband on the line and went through the whole thing with him. He seemed sensible and decisive and I hung up feeling that he'd think it through and do something positive. I only wished I could say the same for myself.

I went over to the window and looked out at the city. When I moved in you could see the World Trade Center towers from my window, but since then various builders have come along, eating up different portions of the sky. I still have a fairly decent view, but it's not what it used to be.

It was raining again. I wondered if he was out there. Maybe he'd get wet, maybe he'd catch his death.

I picked up the phone and called Jan.

She is a sculptor, with a loft south of Canal on Lispenard Street. I had met her back when we were both drinking, and we did some good drinking at her place, she and I. Then she got sober and we stopped seeing each other, and then I got sober and we began again. And then it stopped working, and then it ended, and neither of us ever quite understood why.

When she answered I said, "Jan, it's Matt. I'm sorry to be calling so late."

"It is late," she said. "Is something the matter?"

"Definitely," I said. "I'm not sure whether or not it affects you. My fear is that it might."

"I don't understand."

I went through it in a little more detail than I had with Anita. Jan had seen the TV coverage of Toni's death, but of course she hadn't suspected that it was anything other than the suicide it appeared to be. Nor had she known that Toni was in the program.

"I wonder if I ever met her."

"You could have. You came to St. Paul's a few times. And she got around some, spoke at other meetings."

"And you went on a speaking date with her? You told me where but it slipped my mind."

"Richmond Hill."

"Where is that, somewhere in Queens?"

"Somewhere in Queens, yes."

"And that's why he killed her? Or were the two of you sort of an item?"

"Not at all. She wasn't my type and she was involved with someone at her job. We weren't even buddies particularly. I'd talk to her at meetings, but that speaking engagement was the only real time we ever spent together."

"And on the strength of that—"

"Right."

"You're sure it wasn't suicide? Of course you are. That's a stupid question. Do you think—"

"I'm not sure what I think," I said. "He got out of prison four months ago. He could have spent the whole four months tagging along behind me and he wouldn't have seen me spending time with you. But I don't know what he knows, who he talked to, what kind of research he might have done. You want to know what I think you should do?"

"Yes."

"I think you should get on a plane first thing in the morning. Pay cash for your ticket and don't tell anyone where you're going."

"You're serious."

"Yes."

"I have good locks on the door. I could—"

"No," I said. "Your building's not secure, and this is a man who gets in and out of places and makes it look easy. You can decide to take your chances, but don't kid yourself that you can stay in the city and be safe."

She thought for a moment. "I've been meaning to visit my—"

"Don't tell me," I cut in.

"You think the line is tapped?"

"I think it's better if nobody knows where you're going, myself included."

"I see." She sighed. "Well, Matthew, you've got me taking it seriously. I might as well start packing right now. How will I know when it's safe to come back? Can I call you?"

"Anytime. But don't leave your number."

"I feel like a spy, and an inept one at that. Suppose I can't reach you? How will I know when to come in from the cold?"

"A couple of weeks should do it," I said. "One way or the other."

On the phone with her, talking with her, I had to fight the urge to grab a cab to Lispenard Street and set about the business of protecting her. We could spend a few hours drinking gallons of coffee and having one of the intense conversations that had characterized our relationship from the night we met.

I missed those conversations. I missed her, and sometimes I thought about trying to make it work again, but we had already made that attempt a couple of times and the reality of the situation seemed to be that we were through with each other. We didn't feel through with each other, but that was how it seemed to be.

Back when it all fell apart I'd called Jim Faber. "It's just hard for me to grasp," I told him. "The whole idea that it's over between us. I honestly thought it would work out."

"It did," he said. "This is how it worked out."

I almost called him now.

I could have. Our arrangement was that I wouldn't call him after midnight, and it was well past that. On the other hand, I could call him any hour of the day or night if it was an emergency.

I thought about it and decided the present circumstances didn't qualify as an emergency. I wasn't in danger of taking a drink, which is the only sort of emergency I could think of that would justify waking the guy up. Curiously enough, I didn't even feel like drinking. I felt like hitting someone, or screaming, or kicking the wall down, but I didn't much feel like picking up a drink.

I went out and walked around. The rain had tuned itself down to a light drizzle. I walked over to Eighth Avenue and let myself be drawn eight blocks downtown. I knew her building, I'd walked her home. It was on the northwest corner, but I didn't know whether her apartment fronted on the street or the avenue so I couldn't tell just where she'd come down.

Sometimes a jumper lands with enough force to break up the concrete. I didn't see any broken pavement. Of course she'd had Fitzroy there to break her fall and absorb most of the force of it.

No stains on the pavement. There would have been blood, probably a lot of it, but there had been plenty of rain to clean up whatever the janitorial crew might have missed. Of course it doesn't always wash away. Sometimes it soaks in.

Maybe there was blood there and I just wasn't seeing it. It was night, after all, and the pavement was wet. You wouldn't be likely to spot bloodstains under such conditions, especially if you weren't sure exactly where to look for them.

There are bloodstains all over the city, if you know where to look.

All over the world, I suppose.

I must have spent an hour walking. I thought of stopping at Grogan's but I knew that wasn't a good idea. I wasn't up for conversation, nor did I want to allow myself the self-indulgence of barroom solitude. I just kept on walking, and when the rain picked up I didn't even mind. I walked on through it and let it soak me.

All your women, Scudder . Jesus, a madman wanted to take from me women I didn't have. I had barely known Connie Cooperman and hadn't thought of her in years. And who were his other targets? Elaine, who played a shopworn Lady of Shalott to my corroded Lancelot. Anita, my wife years and years ago, and Jan, my girlfriend months and months ago. And Toni Cleary, who'd had the bad judgment to go out for a hamburger with me.

He must have followed us that night. Could he have trailed us all the way out to Richmond Hill? It seemed impossible. Maybe he'd just been in the neighborhood, lurking, and he picked us up on our way to Armstrong's, or walking toward her place.

I kept walking around, trying to sort it out.

I packed it in, finally, went back to my hotel room and hung my wet clothes up to dry. It had turned cold out there and I had paid as little heed to that as to the rain, and I was chilled to the bone. I stood under a hot shower and then crawled into bed.