Ed McBain - Kiss

Grayson standing with his hands on his hips, a stub of a cigar clenched between his teeth, squinting at the canvas, Nice, Emma, very nice, oh Jesus, it was so beautiful. Vibrating with energy and talent and ambition, she took images from this city and made them her own and gave them back again enriched.

That day in the park outside the school ... that bright spring day ... she remembers there was a man playing an accordion ... yes ... and a bird ... a green-and-yellow parrot ... and the parrot would dip his beak into this tray of cards and take out one of the cards, and there would be a fortune printed on it. She made a series of quick sketches-the man playing his organ, the parrot dipping into the tray, the grinning faces of the boys and girls in the crowd-and was working on several more careful studies of the parrot's claws gripping the perch, and the parrot's bright, intelligent eyes ... when ...

"That's very good," he said.

Startled, she looked up.

The man standing there looking over her shoulder was perhaps five or six years older than she was, a tall, slender man with dark hair and brown eyes, his pleasant mouth turned up in a smile. He was wearing a dark pinstriped business suit with a white button-down collar shirt, and a silk rep tie.

"Really, it's quite good," he said.

"Thank you," she said. He sat beside her on the bench. Crossed his long legs. Looked over at the accordian player and then at the parrot. Looked down at her sketch pad and the busily working pencil.

"Do you go to school here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He looked up at the building as if discovering it for the first time.

"The Briley School of Art, h'm?" he said.

"Yes," she said. Eyes on the parrot's eyes. Those difficult folds around the eyes.

"I'm Martin Bowles," he said.

"Hello, Martin," she said. "Let me get this, okay?”

He watched her silently. Pencil shading in those folds around the eyes. Bright, piercing parrot eyes.

"Very nice," he said.

"Shhhh," she said.

And kept working. When at last she turned to him, he said, "All done?”

"For now," she said. "I have to go back in.”

"Let's go for a walk instead.”

"No," she said, "I can't.”

She closed the pad, rose from the bench.

Holding the pad against her breasts, she said, "I'm Emma Darby," and smiled and walked back into the school.

"That's how we met," she told Andrew now.

"He was the handsomest man I'd ever seen in my life.”

"Mr. Assanti," Addison said, leaning into him affably, like a department-store Santa Claus wanting to know what a terrified kid would like for Christmas, "you've testified that you walked Miss Franceschi home from the movies ...”

"Yes.”

"... and got to her house at about a quarter to nine, ten to nine, isn't that what you said?”

"Yes.”

"And you've also testified that you left her at about nine-twenty ...”

"Yes.”

"... which is how you happened to be in the vicinity of the AandL Bakery at or around nine-thirty ... I believe you said it was nine-thirty, give or take a few minutes, please correct me if I'm wrong.”

“No, that's what I said.”

"Thank you. Now, Mr. Assanti, what were you doing between a quarter to nine, when you arrived at Miss Franceschi's house, and nine-twenty, when you left her? Isn't that what you said?

Nine-twenty?”

"Yes. It only took me ten minutes or so to ...”

"Yes, so what were you doing between a quarter to nine and nine-twenty, can you tell me?”

"We were in Frankie's hallway.”

"Doing what?”

Assanti looked at the judge.

"Answer the question," Di Pasco said.

"We were necking.”

There was mild laughter in the courtroom. Di Pasco glared out over his bench. The laughter ceased.

"You were necking for thirty-five minutes, is that right?" Addison asked, looking amazed.

"Yes.”

"Mr. Assanti, do you remember talking to Detectives Randall Wade and Charles Bent on the night of July twenty-fourth last year?”

"I do.”

"Do you remember telling them that as you walked home, all you could think of was Frankie?”

"Yes, I think that's what I told them.”

"Well, did you, or didn't you?”

"I did.”

"In fact, didn't you tell them you felt sort of dizzy after being with Frankie?”

"I may have said that, yes.”

"Well, those are your exact words, aren't they?" Addison asked, and walked to the defense table and picked up a stapled sheaf of papers.

"Here, I'll refresh your memory.”

"What is that?" Di Pasco asked.

"The Detective Division report written and filed by Detective Randall Wade of the Forty-fifth Detective Squad, recounting the conversation with the witness on the night of July twenty-fourth last year.”

"Proceed.”

"Now, Mr. Assanti, isn't this what you said? `I guess I was feeling sort of dizzy after being with Frankie all that time. I was walking along wiping her lipstick from my mouth ...`was "Well, that's okay, you don't have to ...”

"I'd like to go on, if I may. `Wiping her lipstick from my mouth and thinking about what happened in her hallway.` Isn't that what you told Detectives Wade and Bent?”

"Yes.”

"And isn't that when you heard what at first you thought were backfires? While you were wiping her lipstick from your mouth and thinking about what had happened in her hallway?”

"Yes.”

"What made you decide they weren't backfires?”

"There were no cars on the street.”

"Ah. In your delirious state, you were able ...”

"Objection. He's characterizing the witness's ...”

"Sustained.”

"Anyway, I wasn't delirious,”

Assanti said.

"You told the detectives you felt dizzy.

That is the exact word you used. Dizzy.”

"I guess I was being poetic.”

"Ah. A poet. How nice.”

"Objection. Counsel is harassing ...”

"Sustained.”

"Anyway, I was in love with Frankie at the time," Assanti said.

"But you're no longer in love with her.”

"No, I'm not.”

"And now, in your more stable, nonpoetic condition ...”

"Objection, Your Honor.”

"Sustained. Really, Mr. Addison.”

"Mr. Assanti ... would you here and now still say you were dizzy on Frankie when you left her that night?”

"Well ... yes.”

"But not so dizzy that you couldn't distinguish gunshots from backfires ...”

"They were gunshots.”

"You realized later.”

"Yes.”

"Because there were no cars on the street.”

"Yes.”

"Not because you were able to distinguish them as gunshots, but only because they couldn't have been backfires since there were no cars on the street.”

"Well, yes, I figured ...”

“Actually, it was a sort of reasoning process, wasn't it?”

"Yes, I suppose ...”

"Even though your reason, at the time, was somewhat distorted, wasn't it? You were in love with Frankie, your head was full of Frankie, you were dizzy with thoughts of Frankie, wiping her lipstick from your face, remembering what you'd done together in her hallway. And in this condition, you saw two black men coming out of the bakery ... are you sure they were black?”

"Positive.”

"And you're sure there were two of them?”

"Yes.”

"That's what you told Detectives Randall and Wade a week after the incident, isn't it?

That you saw two black men coming out of that bakery, isn't that so?”

"Yes.”

"But on the night of the incident ... on July seventeenth ... just minutes after you'd witnessed the incident, you told Doris Franceschi that you saw some guy running out of the bakery shop with a gun in his hand. Isn't that what you said?”

"I may have said that, I'm not sure.”

"Well, weren't those your exact words? Some guy with a gun?”