Ed McBain - Downtown

Michael was telling the blonde he’d never been in this part of the city. In fact, he’d been to New York only twice before in his entire life. Hadn’t strayed out of the midtown area either time.

“But here you are now,” the blonde said, and smiled. “All the way downtown.”

She was wearing a smart tailored suit, gray, a white silk blouse with a stock tie. Briefcase sitting on the empty stool to her right. He figured her for someone who worked on Wall Street. Late business meeting — it was now seven o’clock — she’d stopped off at the bar here before heading home. That’s what he figured.

She was drinking Corona and lime.

He was drinking scotch with a splash.

The place looked like an old saloon, but it probably wasn’t. Etched mirrors, polished mahogany and burnished brass, large green-shaded lamps over the bar, smaller versions on all the tables. There was a warm, cozy feel to the place. Nice buzz of conversation, too. Through the big plate-glass window facing the street, he could see gently falling snowflakes. This was Christmas Eve, a Tuesday night. It would be a white Christmas.

“What brings you to New York this time?” the blonde asked.

“Same thing that brought me here the last two times,” he said.

“And what’s that?”

“My ad agency’s here.”

“You’re in advertising, is that it?”

“No, I’m in oranges.”

The blonde nodded.

“Golden Oranges?” Michael said, and looked at her expectantly.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“You’ve heard of them?”

“No,” she said.

“That’s my brand name. Golden Oranges.”

“Sony, I don’t know them.”

“But you know Sunkist, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I’m just a small independent trying to get big. Which is why I’ve got a New York agency handling my advertising.” The blonde nodded again.

“So what do you do?” she asked. “ Grow the oranges and everything?”

“Yep. Grow them and everything.”

“Where?”

“In Florida.”

“Ask a stupid question,” she said, and smiled, and extended her hand. “I’m Helen Parrish,” she said.

“Michael Barnes,” he said, and took her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“So when do you go back to Florida?” she asked.

“Well, not till the fourth of January, actually. I’m flying up to Boston tonight. Spend the holidays with my mother.”

“Your mother’s up there in Boston, huh?”

“Yeah. Be good seeing her again.”

“Business all finished here?”

“Finished it this afternoon.”

He realized that her hand was still in his. To the casual passerby, they must have looked like a man and a woman holding hands. Good-looking blonde woman with flashing blue eyes, suntanned man wearing rimless eyeglasses. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Average height, he guessed. Well, five-ten, he guessed that was average these days. In the army, he’d felt short. The army had a way of making you feel short. Come to think of it, he felt short nowadays, too. Jenny had done that to him. Made him feel short all over again.

“Do you work down here in this area?” he asked.

“I do,” she said.

Still holding his hand.

“I figured you were with one of the brokerage firms,” he said.

“No, I’m a lawyer.”

“Really? What kind of law?”

“Criminal.”

“No kidding?”

“Everybody says that. No kidding, or wow, or gee, or how about that, or words to that effect.”

“Because it’s so unusual. A woman, I mean. Being a criminal lawyer.”

“Actually, there are three in our office.”

“That many.”

“Yes.”

“Criminal lawyers. Women.”

“Yes. Trial lawyers, in fact.”

“Then you’re a trial lawyer.”

“Yes.”

“Do you like the work?”

“Oh, sure.”

She retrieved her hand gently, drained her glass, looked at the clock over the bar, smiled, and said, “Well, I think I’ll...”

“No, don’t go yet,” he said.

She looked at him.

“Have another drink,” he said. “Then maybe we can go someplace for dinner together,” he said. “I’ve got a rented car outside, we can go anyplace in the city you like. I don’t have to start for the airport till nine-thirty or so. Unless you’ve got other plans.”

“I don’t have any plans as such, but...”

“Then what’s the hurry?”

“Well, I’ll have another drink, but...”

“Good,” he said, and signaled to the bartender for another round. The bartender nodded.

“This doesn’t mean we’re having dinner together,” she said. “I hardly know you.”

“Ask me anything,” he said.

“Well... are you married?”

“Divorced.”

“How long?”

“Nine months. More or less.”

“And on the loose in the big, bad city, huh?”

“Well, my plane leaves at eleven-oh-five. It’s the last one out tonight. I was lucky to get anything at all. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. She was looking at him steadily now. Penetrating blue eyes. “How long were you married?” she asked.

“Thirteen years.”

“Unlucky number.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-one,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two,” she said at once.

He liked that. No coy nonsense like Gee, a woman’s not

supposed to tell her age. Just straight out thirty-two.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Corona and lime, Dewar’s with a splash,” the bartender said, and put the drinks down in front of them. “Shall I keep this tab running?”

“Please,” Michael said.

He lifted his glass. She lifted hers.

“To a nice evening together,” he said. “Till plane time.”

She seemed to be looking through him, or at least past him, toward the other end of the bar, almost dreamily. She nodded at last, as if in response to a secret decision she had made, and smiled, and said, “That sounds safe enough,” and clinked her glass against his and began sipping at her beer.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” he said.

“What was your question?” she said.

“Are you married?”

“Would it matter?”

“Yes.”

She waggled the fingers on her left hand.

“See any wedding band?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m not married,” she said.

“Divorced?” he said.

“Nope. Just single.”

“Beautiful woman like you?”

“Ha.”

“I mean it.”

“Thank you.”

“So what I’d like to do,” he said, “you must know a lot of good restaurants...”

“Slow down,” she said smiling. “You didn’t ask me if I’m engaged, or involved with anyone, or...”

“Are you?”

“No, but...”

“Good. Do you like Italian food?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, and put down her glass, and slid her handbag over in front of her. and reached into it for a package of cigarettes.

“Well, if you know a good Italian restaurant, I’d like to...”

“All right,” she said suddenly and coldly and somewhat harshly, “you want to give it back to me?”

He looked at her.

Her eyes had turned hard, there was no longer a smile on her face.

“The ring,” she said.

She was whispering now.

“Just give it back to me, okay?”

She held out her right hand. Nothing on any of the fingers.

“The ring,” she said. “Please, I don’t want any trouble.”