Том Годвин: Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

“The same to you,” she said, and lifted her glass and clinked it against his. “There’s nothing so depressing as drinking alone on Christmas Eve, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes,” he said.

Now that they had got the formalities out of the way, Jenny felt it was perfectly all right to engage in conversation. Lighting another cigarette, she told him she was on Christmas vacation from Bryn Mawr, where she was going for her masters in educational psychology, and her father was an enormously wealthy architect, and she got along famously with him despite the so-called generation gap. Her mother was a lovely person, too, engaged in all sorts of charity work and the like. They lived in a rambling house her father had designed, right on the water, and whenever she was home from school she usually played tennis on one of their two clay courts, or else took her father’s sloop out for a sail, though of course she didn’t do either of those things during the Christmas break. What she did at Christmastime was read poetry a lot and play chess with her younger brother who was a graduating senior at Lawrenceville.

“What do you do?” she asked, putting out the cigarette and immediately lighting another one.

“I’m an investment broker,” he said. “I take other people’s money and invest it for them.”

“That must be fascinating work,” she said.

“It is, though of course there’s a large element of danger involved. Why don’t you take off your coat?”

“I’m a little chilly,” she said. “Winter gets into my bones.”

The second round of drinks came, and they lifted their glasses and toasted the holiday season, and Jenny pressed her knee against his under the table and told him he would probably think it brazen of her again, but she felt that in this day and age it was perfectly all right for a woman to take the initiative, as for example she had done when she’d come over to the table and practically invited herself to sit down. Did he think that was indicative of a permissiveness in the society, or merely an expression of self-worth, a woman behaving like a person instead of a passive object to be treated with scorn and disdain?

“Yes,” Ralphie said. “I think so.”

“Oh, hell, I’m out of cigarettes,” she said, and crumpled the package. “I’ll just be gone a minute, the machine’s right around the corner of the bar.”

“I’ll ask the waiter to get you a pack,” he said. “What brand do you smoke?”

She told him the brand, and then she said, “It’ll take forever for the waiter to get them I don’t want you to think I’m a compulsive smoker, but really when I’m engaged in conversation with an attractive and intelligent man, there’s nothing I like better than to have a cigarette in my hand, I don’t know what it is. I also like to smoke after I’ve had sex, especially in the afternoon on a cold day outside in December, like today is,” she said, and looked deep into his eyes.

“Well,” Ralphie said “Well, let me get the cigarettes for you then, there’s no sense waiting for a waiter, is there?” He rose hastily, almost knocking his drink off the table. “Where did you say the machine was?”

“Right around the comer of the bar.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said “Don’t go away now.”

The moment he disappeared around the corner of the bar, she picked up his shopping bag and headed for the door. Holding the fake fur closed with one hand, holding the shopping bag in the other hand, she stepped quickly into the street. She was two blocks away from the bar when she realized she was being followed. The man following her was not Ralphie. He was instead a good-looking fellow of about thirty-eight or thirty-nine, with a nice haircut, and a black coat with a little velvet collar. He was carrying a shopping bag identical to her own, with the same store name imprinted on it. He caught her glancing at him over her shoulder, and he grinned. She slowed her pace, allowing him to catch up.

“Hello,” he said, matching his stride to hers. “My name is Andrew.” His voice was cultivated and smooth, he had probably gone to Lawrenceville like her non-existent brother.

“Are you following me?” she asked, and returned his smile.

“I am indeed.”

“Why?”

“I’m interested in having a little party,” he said. “Are you interested in having a little party?”

She stopped stock still in the center of the sidewalk, and looked at him in amazement. This had to be some kind of miracle. A guy looking for a party on Christmas Eve? When most men were rushing home to their loved ones and their blazing fires? In Jenny’s profession, which was the oldest, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were the two worst possible days of the year — which was why a hardworking girl had to stoop to cruising in bars, and ripping off shopping bags loaded with gift-wrapped items.

“What do you say?” Andrew asked.

“That depends,” she said.

“On what?”

“On how much you’ve got to spend,” she said, and her eyes hardened.

“I know a racehorse when I see one,” he said. “Whatever it costs is fine with me.”

“You’re on,” she said, and looped her hand through his arm.

It was a little after four when they entered the hotel room. Jenny stopped talking about her clay tennis courts the moment Andrew locked the door behind them. She put her shopping bag on the floor just inside the door, and Andrew put his identical shopping bag alongside it. Jenny then removed first the fake fur, and then the green dress, and then her shoes, her bra, and her panties. “That will be a hundred dollars, please,” she said, and when Andrew handed her the money, she said, “Merry Christmas,” and grinned and fell upon him with good holiday cheer. They remained in the room for close to two hours, at the end of which time Jenny put on first her bra and panties, then her shoes, and then her green dress and fake fur. She told him she’d had a very nice time, but was late for a chess match with her brother. In her haste, she picked up Andrew’s shopping bag instead of her own. Neither of them noticed the error. She whispered, “Merry Christmas,” again, and he closed the door behind her.

Andrew showered and dressed leisurely. Then he picked up the other shopping bag, and went downstairs, and paid the discreet room clerk, and took the 6:38 back home. He was in the living room of his own house by ten minutes to eight. The fireplace was cheerily blazing with yule logs, the Christmas tree was aglow in the corner. His wife was waiting. She was a good-looking blond lady with splendid legs and a remarkable bosom.

“How was the Christmas party?” she asked.

“Beautiful,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

He had discovered over the years that office Christmas parties were not only not beautiful but were something of a bore besides, rather like a great deal of thunder and lightning promising a rainstorm that never came. Which was why each and every year he stayed at the party only for an obligatory half-hour, and then took to the streets in search of a lady with whom to share his spirit of Christmas joy. He had learned, much to his amazement and delight, that Christmas Eve was a particularly slack time for such ladies.

His wife relieved him of the shopping bag he had carried home, and then took the gifts out one by one, spreading them beneath the tree, where she had already placed the other presents she’d bought that day.

“I’m sorry about the bag,” she said, “I know you hate carrying shopping bags.”

“No problem,” he said, and went to the bar and poured himself a drink.

“But I was running late, and I still had a few more stores to hit, and I didn’t think you’d mind if I just dropped it off at the office.”