Ed McBain - Kiss

"Have you got a Gucci in Chicago?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he said, "on Michigan Avenue. I buy all my shoes there.”

Proud of the way he dressed. Wanting her to know that he spent money on clothes. Took care in selecting his clothes. Bought his clothes at only the very best shops.

"Incidentally," he said, "I thought you might like to have my home number.”

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, I can't be with you twenty-four hours a day, and if anything happens ...”

"Once the police find Tilly, nothing will happen," she said.

"In the meantime, they haven't got him, have they?”

"No, but ...”

"Then take my card," he said, and handed it to her. "I've written a number here on the back, it's where I'm staying while I'm in town. You can call me anytime you need me.”

She looked at the card: A. N. DARROW INVESTIGATIONS 644 South Clark Street CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60605 312-404-2592 "Darrow Investigations," she said aloud.

"Yes.”

"South Clark Street.”

"Yes.”

She turned the card over, studied the telephone number he'd scrawled in ink.

"Where is this?" she asked.

"All the way downtown. Near the - Calm's Point Bridge.”

"I used to live down there.”

"Oh?”

"Long ago. Before I met Martin.”

"What were you doing then?”

"Dreaming," she said, and fell silent for the rest of the trip downtown.

The police cars here in the center of the city were marked on their sides with the words MIDTOWN NORTH PCT. Andrew wondered where the Midtown South precinct started. Was there a dividing line? The stores lining the avenue had already taken down all the Christmas decorations, their windows were showing cruise wear. Hall Avenue was the name of the big shopping street here, it reminded him of The Miracle Mile in Chicago, except that it wasn't as wide.

Everything here in this city seemed cramped and stingy.

You didn't have the feeling of extravagant space you had in Chicago. Well, Chicago had been carved out of the prairie, and this place was an island, but even so, they could have made their avenues a bit wider. At least their avenues.

He really hated this fucking city.

She spent about half an hour upstairs at Gucci, first waiting to see someone about the bag and then explaining what had happened to its clasp. The woman she spoke to was in her late forties, Andrew guessed, an attractive woman with jet-black hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. She spoke with an accent Andrew found charming. He wondered what Rome was like.

He was willing to bet they had wide avenues in Rome.

It was a little past twelve when they came out into the street again. The sidewalks were thronged with people on their lunch hour. That was another thing about this city. It always seemed so crowded. No wonder people's tempers were short.

"Shall we have some lunch?" Emma asked.

"About that time, isn't it?" he said.

She led him to a little French restaurant on one of the side streets. He didn't know exactly where he was, but he gathered this was a neighborhood with a lot of restaurants in it, most of them expensive from the looks of them. The outside looks, anyway. The canopies, the thick wooden entrance doors, some of them elaborately carved, the polished brass doorknobs. He wondered at once who'd be paying for lunch. He'd told her that his fee included expenses. Would they be going Dutch here? He certainly hoped she didn't expect him to pay for her lunch. In the Bad Investment Department, that would be an indisputable winner.

Emma ordered a glass of white wine. He ordered an Absolut on the rocks.

"I only drink the best," he said.

"Cheers.”

"Cheers," she said.

She sipped a little of the wine, and then put her glass down.

"Wine okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she said.

And fell silent again. He hated these silences she fell into.

The restaurant was tiny and intimate, small square tables with pristine white tablecloths, polished silver, sparkling stemware glasses on each table, a small one for the white wine, a large for the red, a yet-larger water goblet. People kept drifting in; the place was gradually filling up. There were good aromas in here. Andrew suddenly felt ravenously hungry. The headwaiter brought their menus and padded off. Andrew studied his.

"I'm going to need help," he said.

"Sure," she said.

He thought at first that she was going to translate for him, but instead she signaled to the headwaiter, who patiently recited the day's specials and then answered Andrew's specific questions about several items on the menu. He ended up ordering the grilled salmon without the mouselline sauce.

She ordered the chicken special. The waiter asked him if he would care for another drink. He said he'd just have a glass of white wine, please.

"Madame?" the waiter asked.

Her glass was still three-quarters full. She covered it with her hand.

"I'm fine," she said. "Thank you.”

And fell silent again.

What the hell was wrong with her?

"When was that?" he asked abruptly.

She looked up.

"When was what?”

"When you lived downtown. Near the bridge.”

"Oh. When I was very young.”

"How young?”

"Nineteen. A long time ago.”

“Not so long ago," he said, and smiled.

"Long enough," she said.

"What were you doing back then?”

"I was in school," she said.

"Best time of my life," he said, and smiled again.

It was tough to get this woman to return a smile. Her thumb and forefinger kept working the stem of the wineglass. She was looking down into the glass again. No eye contact. The waiter brought Andrew's wine. He lifted it in a toast she did not see, and took a small swallow of it.

"Nice," he said.

"Yes," she said.

"Studying what?" he asked.

"What? Oh. I wanted to be an artist.”

"Really?”

"A painter," she said. "I was studying at the Briley School of Art. Do you know where that is?”

"No.”

"Well ... downtown. Near the bridge.”

"Were you any good?”

"I thought I was.”

"But?”

"Things change." She looked up. "I met Martin.”

"Uh-huh.”

"And we fell in love. And we got married.

And ...”

"And?”

She shrugged and picked up her wineglass.

She took another sip, but that was all. Put the glass right down on the table again. Began toying with the stem again. Big drinker, this lady.

"How'd you meet him?" he asked.

"In the park. There's this little park outside the school, I used to bring a sandwich to school and eat it in the park. And after lunch, when the weather was good, I'd sit there and sketch. ... I was very serious about becoming an artist, you see. The war in Vietnam was over by then ...”

... well, it had been over for several years by then, and most students were settling down and trying to prepare themselves for whatever the future might hold. Nobody was even sure there'd be a future; the kids used to sit around and talk about the big blast coming any day now. Telling Andrew about it now, Emma remembers that there seemed to be constant trouble all over the world, heads of state being murdered everywhere, countries getting invaded or overthrown, and all of this might have been completely unsettling to a nineteen-year-old girl-had it not been for her art.

Back then, Emma saw everything with a frame around it.

Her careful eye searched out the details of city life, and her quick pencil recorded them.

When later she worked these sketches into charcoal drawings on canvas, enlarging them, expanding upon them in oils, giving them full-bodied life in riotous color, she felt like an essential part of this tremendously exciting thing that was happening here in the big, drafty room on the top floor of the school; the skylights spilling northern light, the kids in paint-smeared smocks standing behind their easels, touching brushes to pallet and canvas, the smell of turpentine and linseed oil, the serious looks on all the faces; Mr.