Лоуренс Блок - The Kit Tolliver Stories

“The nuns would be proud of me.”

“I’m sure they would. Except...”

“Except they wouldn’t like to see me waking up in a strange bed.”

“I’m not sure how liberal they’re getting these days,” he said. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t know where you were, did you? When you opened your eyes.”

“Not right away.”

“Do you know now?”

“Well, sure,” she said. “I’m here. With you.”

“Do you know where ‘here’ is? Or who I am?”

Should she make something up? Or would the truth be easier?

“I don’t remember getting in a car,” she said, “and I do remember walking, so my guess is we’re in Riverdale.”

“But it’s a guess.”

“Well, couldn’t we call it an educated guess? Or at least an informed one?”

“Either way,” he said, “it’s right. We walked here, and we’re in Riverdale.”

“So I got that one right. But why wouldn’t the nuns be proud of me?”

“Forget the nuns, okay?”

“They’re forgotten.”

“Look, I don’t want to get preachy. And it’s none of my business. But if you’re drinking enough to leave big gaps in your memory, well, how do you know who you’re going home with?”

Whom, she thought. The nuns wouldn’t be proud of you, buster.

She said, “It worked out all right, didn’t it? I mean, you’re an okay guy. So I guess my judgment was in good enough shape when we hooked up.”

“Or you were lucky.”

“Nothing wrong with getting lucky.”

She grinned as she spoke the line, but he remained serious. “There are a lot of guys out there,” he said, “who aren’t okay. Predators, nut cases, bad guys. If you’d gone home with one of those—”

“But I didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know? Well, here we are, both of us, and... what do you mean, how do I know?”

“Do you remember my name?”

“I’d probably recognize it if I heard it.”

“Suppose I say three names, and you pick the one that’s mine.”

“What do I get if I’m right?”

“What do you want?”

“A shower.”

This time he grinned. “It’s a deal. Three names? Hmmm. Peter. Harley. Joel.”

“Look into my eyes,” she said, “and say them again. Slowly.”

“What are you, a polygraph? Peter. Harley. Joel.”

“You’re Joel.”

“I’m Peter.”

“Hey, I was close.”

“Two more tries,” he said, “and you’d have had it for sure. You told me your name was Jennifer.”

“Well, I got that one right.”

“And you told me to call you Jen.”

“And did you?’

“Did I what?”

“Call me Jen.”

“Of course. I can take direction.”

“Are you an actor?”

“As sure as my name is Joel. Why would you... oh, because I said I could take direction? Actually I had my schoolboy ambitions, but by the time I got out of college I smartened up. I work on Wall Street.”

“All the way downtown. What time is it?”

“A little after ten.”

“Don’t you have to be at your desk by nine?”

“Not on Saturday.”

“Oh, right. Uh, Peter... or do I call you Pete?”

“Either one.”

“Awkward question coming up. Did we...”

“We did,” he said, “and it was memorable for one of us.”

“Oh.”

“I felt a little funny about it, because I had the feeling you weren’t entirely present. But your body was really into it, no matter where your mind was, and, well—”

“We had a good time?”

“A very good time. And, just so that you don’t have to worry, we took precautions.”

“That’s good to know.”

“And then you, uh, passed out.”

“I did?”

“It was a little scary. You just went out like a light. For a minute I thought, I don’t know—”

“That I was dead,” she supplied.

“But you were breathing, so I ruled that out.”

“That keen analytical mind must serve you well on Wall Street.”

“I tried to wake you,” he said, “but you were gone. So I let you sleep. And then I fell asleep myself, and, well, here we are.”

“Naked and unashamed.” She yawned, stretched. “Look,” she said, “I’m going to treat myself to a shower, even if I didn’t win the right in the Name That Stud contest. Don’t go away, okay?”

The bathroom had a window, and one look showed that she was on a high floor, with a river view. She showered, and washed her hair with his shampoo. Then she borrowed his toothbrush and brushed her teeth diligently, and gargled with a little mouthwash.

When she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in his big yellow towel, the aroma of fresh coffee led her into the kitchen, where he’d just finished filling two cups. He was wearing a white terry robe with a nautical motif, dark blue anchors embroidered on the pockets. His soft leather slippers were wine-colored.

Gifts, she thought. Men didn’t buy those things for themselves, did they?

“I made coffee,” he said.

“So I see.”

“There’s cream and sugar, if you take it.”

“Just black is fine.” She picked up her cup, breathed in the steam that rose from it. “I might live,” she announced. “Do you sail?”

“Sail?”

“The robe. Anchors aweigh and all that.”

“Oh. I suppose I could, because I don’t get seasick or anything. But no, I don’t sail. I have another robe, if you’d be more comfortable.”

“With anchors? Actually I’m comfortable enough like this.”

“Okay.”

“But if I wanted to be even more comfortable...” She let the towel drop to the floor, noted with satisfaction the way his eyes widened. “How about you? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you got rid of that sailor suit?”

Afterward she propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him. “I feel much much better now,” she announced.

“The perfect hangover cure?”

“No, the shower and the coffee took care of the hangover. This let me feel better about myself. I mean, the idea of hooking up and not remembering it...”

“You’ll remember this, you figure?”

“You bet. What about you, Peter? Will you remember?”

“Till my dying day.”

“I’d better get dressed and head on home.”

“And I can probably use a shower,” he said. “Unless you want to—”

“You go ahead. I’ll have another cup of coffee while you’re in there.”

Her clothes were on the chair, and she dressed quickly, then picked up her purse and checked its contents. She opened the little plastic vial, and counted the little blue pills.

Six of them, which was the same number she’d had at the start of the evening. Six little Roofies, so she hadn’t slipped one into his drink, as she’d planned.

Nor had she fucked up big time and taken Rohypnol herself, which was what she’d begun to suspect. Because she hadn’t been hitting the Cosmos anywhere near hard enough to account for the way the evening had turned out. It would have added up if she’d dosed his drink and then chosen the wrong glass, but she still had all her pills left.

Unless...

Oh, Peter, she thought. Peter Peter, pussy eater, what a naughty young man you turned out to be.

She returned the vial of blue pills to her purse and drew out the small glassine envelope instead. It was unopened, and held perhaps half a teaspoonful of a crystalline white substance. Not so fast as Rohypnol, according to her information, but rather more permanent.

She went into the kitchen, poured herself more coffee, and considered what was left in the pot. No, leave it , she thought, and turned her attention to the bottle of vodka on the sinkboard.