Ed McBain - Puss in Boots

“I was wondering... ,” he said.

“Me, too,” she said. “Oh, Matthew, you have set me wondering.”

“Is there someplace we can go to talk? It’s a little loud in here.”

“What did you want to talk about, Matthew?”

“Storage,” he said.

“Oh my, storage,” she said. “This is Christmas, Matthew, let’s not talk about storage. Bah-humbug on storage. Let’s talk about kissing. Dance me over to the mistletoe, Matthew.”

“Seriously, could we—”

“Let’s not get too serious, Matthew, we’ve only just met.”

“Isn’t there someplace... ”

“Yes, there is definitely someplace,” she said, and broke out of his arms, and reached for his right hand, tugging at the tube top again with her left, and led him to a door near the bar. She opened the door with her left hand, and pulled him into a smaller office. She closed the door behind them. And kissed him at once.

“God,” she said, and melted into him again, and kissed him again.

He remembered what he had told Susan.

About never cheating on her again.

Marcie’s tongue was in his mouth.

“Listen,” he said, breaking away from her, trying to hold her away from him, “there’s... really, there’s something we have to talk about.”

“What can we possibly find to talk about at this particular moment in time?” she said.

Her arms still around his neck.

“I’m a lawyer,” he said.

“So?” she said. “Sue me.”

And thrust her crotch against him.

“I’m... I’m here on behalf of a client,” he said.

“I’ll bet,” she said.

“Who stored something here.”

“Stored?”

“Film.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said, and cupped his face between her hands, and lifted her mouth toward his again.

He pulled away.

“Can we talk first?” he asked.

He was trembling.

“Please,” he said.

“Three minutes,” she said, and took his hand and led him to a couch on the far side of the room. She sat. She folded her hands primly in her lap. The tube top was slipping again. She made no move to tug it up over her breasts. He sat beside her. “So talk,” she said.

“Prudence Ann Markham,” he said. “The Prudent Company.”

“What about her?”

“Her husband told me she was renting a storage bin here.”

“So?” Marcie said.

“Was she?”

“This is the girl who got killed, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, she was renting a bin here.”

“Air-conditioned, her husband said.”

“They’re all air-conditioned,” Marcie said.

“One key, her husband said.”

“That’s all I give is one key. I don’t know what people store here, and I don’t ask. For all I know, half the cocaine in the state of Florida is behind those little red doors out there. One key is all I give. You give two keys, you’ve got two people. If you’ve got two people, you’ve also got trouble.” She grinned. “As with us, Matthew. Big trouble, Matthew. From minute one. Has this ever happened to you before? This kind of heat lightning? I’m trying very hard to keep my hands off you, Matthew. Has this ever happened to you before?”

He tried to remember.

Had it been this way in the beginning with Aggie, long, long ago, the first time he’d ever cheated on a contract in his life? This kind of immediate reaction? Eyes meeting, hands touching? He had made a new contract with Susan, a contract of sorts, but a contract nonetheless. Yet sitting here with a woman he’d met not ten minutes ago, he was thinking he wanted to rip that damn tube top off her breasts. He suddenly wondered what had happened to all those fine new promises he’d made to Susan.

“Would you? Cheat on me again? ”

“ No. Never.”

He wondered if he was merely a no-good philandering bastard.

Hey, hold it, he thought, I’m not married !

Then why was he sitting here feeling guilty?

I’m in trouble, he thought. Big trouble.

She was right.

“Let’s finish talking,” he said.

And when we finish talking? he wondered.

“Is there a master key?” he asked.

“There is.”

“Can you let me into the bin she was renting?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause you’re not the key holder. I only let key holders—”

“I can ask for a warrant,” Matthew said.

“So ask for it.”

“This is a murder case I’m defending.”

“This is the right to privacy I’m defending.”

“Oh, are you a lawyer, too?”

“Don’t go smart-ass on me, Matthew. You’ve got two minutes left.”

“But who’s counting?”

“I am.”

“Marcie, there’s something in that bin that may—”

“No, there’s nothing in it,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody cleaned it out.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw the van.”

“What van? When?”

“The night she was murdered.”

Matthew looked at her.

“A van was here on the night she was murdered?”

“Yes. A man unlocked the bin, took everything out of it, and put it in a van.”

“What kind of van?”

“One of these little delivery vans.”

“You saw him doing this?”

“I did.”

“Where were you?”

“Working right here in the office.”

“What time was this?”

“Around midnight, somewhere in there. I work hard, Matthew.”

“So do I.”

Eyes meeting again.

She clenched her hands in her lap.

That mouth.

“What did the man look like?” he asked.

“Big blond guy wearing overalls.”

“Blond?”

“Blond.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Sure. You’ve got one minute, Matthew.”

“Opened the door with a key?”

“With a key.”

“Had to be Prue’s key,” Matthew said, thinking out loud.

“Whoever’s,” Marcie said, and shrugged, threatening the tube top’s tenuous hold.

“You said you only give one key—”

“That’s not all I give, Matthew. Forty seconds.”

“So it had to be hers. Why didn’t you call the police?”

“About what? Somebody taking something from one of the bins? Is that a crime?”

“It is if the somebody just killed—”

“I didn’t see a murder, Matthew. I saw somebody emptying a bin. Thirty seconds.”

“Emptying it into a van.”

“A van.”

“What kind of van?”

“A white one.”

“What make?”

“I don’t know. He was probably a musician or something.”

“A musician? You said he was wearing overalls.”

“Maybe he plays at barn dances. Twenty seconds.”

“What makes you think he was a musician?”

“Because of what was lettered on the side of the van. In pink.”

“What was lettered on the van?”

“Ten seconds.”

“What was lettered there?”

“Orchestrations. Nine—”

“Orches—”

“Eight. Orchestrations, right.”

“You saw that on the side of the van?”

“Orchestrations. Seven.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Six.”

“No name or anything? Just—”

“Orchestrations. Five... ”

“Marcie... ”

“Four... ”

“You’ve had a little bit too much to drink.”

“No, I haven’t. Three... ”

“And I have to get back to my—”

“Two... ”

“—office.”

“One,” she said. “Now kiss me again before I die.”

“Marcie... ”

“You said you weren’t married.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you gay?”