Брайан Гарфилд - Death Sentence

Then she stood in the circle of his arms; she tipped her cheek against his shoulder. She was still looking through the glass. Her voice came up to him very soft, muffled by his shirt: “Count the millions of lights out there, and realize only one of them is yours. Does that bother you?”

“No. Should it?” Anonymity was his protection.

“You’ve got your ego well under control. That’s one of the things I like about you.”

He leered. “What are the others?”

“Oh no. I’m not going to enumerate all your excellences, Paul — why should I give you ammunition?” She escaped with an impish pirouette and went inquisitively around the room pausing here and there to hover near a photograph of Paul and Sam Kreutzer on shipboard, a hard-cover copy of Plain Speaking, a silk-screen copy of a Picasso etching no bigger than an index file card, the small collection between bookends of Paul’s LP record albums: Karajan’s Beethoven, the Swingle Singers, P.D.Q. Bach, Lizst, Goldmark, Peter Nero, Al Hirt.

“You look gorgeous and girlish in that little skirt.”

“Well it’s not exactly the right season for it but I thought a little frivolity was called for.” But she was pleased by the compliment, clumsy as it may have been.

In his vague fantasies it was much too easy to see her making a warm serene home. He took her glass from her and went to refill them both; he felt unnerved.

She trailed him into the kitchen. “You really did a job on your face.”

“I hadn’t tightened the blade in the razor. Incredibly stupid. I did all this with one swipe before I realized the blade was loose.”

“I’d better get you a cartridge razor.”

“I bought one this morning.” Actually he’d always used a cartridge razor but he’d bought a brand new one today and thrown the old one out. The first time she went in the bathroom she’d see the cardboard-and-plastic package on the rim of the wastebasket. It was the details, he thought; concentrate on every detail, get it right, forget nothing.

“What’s this gizmo?”

“Trash compactor.”

“My goodness. You’ve really got all the mod cons in this building. Dishwasher, compactor — is that a self-cleaning oven?”

“I’m waiting for the self-making bed.”

“And the self-vacuuming rug. Wasn’t there a Ray Bradbury story ...?” She accepted the highball and moved back into the living room. “What’s your resolution for the new year?”

“I don’t know. What’s yours?”

“Haven’t you noticed — I haven’t had a cigarette all evening.” She attacked her drink like an addict snatching an overdue fix: she made a comic act of it. “I’m going out of my mind with nicotine withdrawal.”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”

“Were you a smoker?”

“Long time ago. I gave it up when the surgeon general started issuing threats.”

“My God you’re disgustingly virtuous. You don’t smoke, you eat and drink in moderation. You haven’t got anything to give up.”

“I was thinking of giving up sex.”

“Good Lord. Whatever for?”

“So that you could talk me out of it.”

“How strong a case would I have to present?”

“Not very.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Turnips,” he said triumphantly.

“What?”

“I’ll give up turnips.”

“You hate turnips.”

“Exactly.”

“Bastard. I’m getting no sympathy at all. Look at me. I’ve got the shakes, my eyes are watering, I’m knotted up with indescribable pain, I’m a complete and utter wreck with a ten-ton monkey on my back. And you’re offering to give up turnips.”

“How about Brussels sprouts?”

“I could kill you.”

“No you couldn’t,” he said.

She lay on her right side, hands under her cheek. He left the bed slowly because he didn’t want to wake her; he went into the kitchen, slippers flapping along the floor, and went through the ritual of assembling utensils and ingredients to make the English coffee she liked — a mixture with warm milk.

Beyond the window the city was crystalline: the sky unusually deep, the buildings of the Loop colored crisply by the morning sun. It looked like a giant Kodachrome projection in very sharp focus.

He wondered how many revelers had died from knife or bullet.

He crossed the front door and opened it and found the morning paper on the mat; he brought it in and shot both locks. The coffee was beginning to bubble. He unfolded the newspaper on the table.

He heard the shower begin to spray against its frosted glass door. He smiled a little and turned down the flame under the saucepan of milk.

The headline caught his eye.

Two New Year’s Eve incidents led Captain Victor Mastro of the Chicago police to comment last night that defensive violence in Chicago may be on the increase because of widespread publicity over the killings of the mysterious vigilante.

Talking off-the-cuff to reporters at the Police Commissioner’s annual Open House for the Press, Captain Mastro referred to two incidents reported earlier in the day.

In one case, a South Side woman repelled a mugging attempt by two unidentified youths on populous Martin Luther King Boulevard. The woman sent the youths running after she fought them off with a heavy length of iron pipe which she had been carrying in her handbag.

In the other case, an attempted holdup of a filling station on Canfield Road in Norridge was thwarted by an attendant who took a loaded shotgun from its hiding place beneath the cash register and fired both barrels, apparently injuring both would-be robbers, although the two men got away in their car and are still at large. The gas station attendant was quoted as saying, “The vigilante’s got it right, man, there’s only one language these guys understand.”

Captain Mastro said, “There’s a danger in this kind of thinking. When an armed robber comes into your place of business, you run a tremendous risk if you resist him. A lot of these men are hardened criminals. Unless you’re as tough and as expert with guns as they are, the chances are pretty good that you’ll end up the loser if you get into a gun battle with them. It’s our official policy to recommend against the possession of any deadly weapon, even it it’s purchased purely for reasons of self-defense. It’s too easy for people to get hurt or killed. A few dollars out of a cash register isn’t worth a shopkeeper’s life.”

But when asked whether Chicago’s street-crime rate had been reduced since the vigilante case began, Captain Mastro refused to comment. “Any answer to that question would be misleading right now,” he said. “There are too many factors involved.”

He carried the two cups of coffee into the bedroom. She came out of the bathroom naked, toweling beaded water off her shoulders. The ends of her hair were matted damp. She smiled — very warm and still a little sleepy.

“Happy New Year.”

“It is.” She dropped the towel and embraced him. Her skin was tight from the shower. He had a saucer and cup in each hand; he put them down carefully and closed his arms around her. Her kiss was soft and slow. “Thanks for making it the happiest one in a long time, darling.”

She disengaged herself and went to her clothes; he watched the sway of her small’round hips. He said, “There’s coffee here.”

“I think I’ll wait. If I drink it steaming hot I’ll only want a cigarette.”

When he had showered and dressed they sat in the kitchen spooning segments of grapefruit and Paul said, “I don’t have to report for work until Monday. That gives us five days. Why don’t we go away somewhere? How about New Orleans?”