Lawrence Block: Getting Off

“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.

He must have fed her the Roofie at the bar. Otherwise she’d remember coming here. But there were two unwashed glasses next to the bottle, so they’d evidently had a nightcap before she lost it completely.

What a shock he’d given her! The touch, the unexpected warmth of his skin. And then his voice.

She hadn’t expected that.

She uncapped the bottle, opened the glassine envelope, poured its contents in with the vodka. The crystals dissolved immediately. She replaced the cap on the bottle, returned the empty envelope to her purse.

She made her cup of coffee last until he was out of the shower and dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, which was evidently what a Wall Street guy wore on the weekend. “I’ll get out of your hair now,” she told him. “And I’m sorry about last night. I’m going to make it a point not to get quite that drunk again.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Jen. You were running a risk, that’s all. For your own sake—”

“I know.”

“Hang on and I’ll walk you to the subway.”

She shook her head. “Really, there’s no need. I can find it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“If you say so. Uh, can I have your number?”

“You really want it?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“Next time I won’t pass out. I promise.”

He handed her a pen and a notepad, and she wrote down her area code, 212, and picked seven digits at random to keep it company. And then they kissed, and he said something sweet, and she said something clever in response, and she was out the door.

The streets were twisty and weird in that part of Riverdale, but she asked directions and somebody pointed her toward the subway. She waited on the elevated platform and thought about how shocked she’d been when she opened her eyes.

Because he was supposed to be dead. That was how it worked, you put the crystals in the guy’s drink and it took effect one or two hours later. After they’d had sex, after he’d dozed off or not. His heart stopped, and that was that.

It worked like a charm. But it only worked if you put the crystals in the guy’s drink, and if you were too drunk to manage that, well, you woke up and there he was.

Bummer.

Sooner or later, she thought, he’d take the cap off the vodka bottle. Today or tomorrow or next week, whenever he got around to it. And he’d take a drink, and one or two hours later he’d be cooling down to room temperature. She wouldn’t be there to scoop up his cash or go through his dresser drawers, but that was all right. The money wasn’t really the point.

Maybe he’d have some other girl with him. Maybe they’d both have a drink before hitting the mattress, and they could die in each other’s arms. Like Romeo and Juliet, sort of.

Or maybe she’d have a drink and he wouldn’t. That would be kind of interesting, when he tried to explain it all to the cops.

A pity she couldn’t be a fly on the wall. Would she ever find out what happened? Sooner or later, there’d be something in the papers. But by then she could well be a thousand miles away.

Because it felt as though it might be time to get out of New York. She felt at home here, but she had the knack of feeling at home just about anywhere. And a girl didn’t want to overstay her welcome.

He was wearing a Western-style shirt, scarlet and black with a lot of gold piping, and one of those bolo string ties, and he should have topped things off with a broad-brimmed Stetson, but that would have hidden his hair. And it was the hair that had drawn her in the first place. It was a rich chestnut with red highlights, and so perfect she’d thought it was a wig. Up close, though, you could see that it was homegrown and not store bought, and it looked the way it did because he’d had one of those $400 haircuts that cost John Edwards the Iowa primary. This barber had worked hard to produce a haircut that appeared natural and effortless, so much so that it wound up looking like a wig.

He was waiting his turn at the craps table, betting against the shooter, and winning steadily as the dice stayed cold, with one shooter after another rolling craps a few times, then finally getting a point and promptly sevening out.