Ed McBain - Kiss

He wasted a dollar trying to make a call, without getting so much as a beep.

"It's terrible, I know," Daisy said.

"And there are no phone books in these booths.”

"They tear them up, I know," Daisy said.

"Who tears them up?”

"Who knows? Vandals.”

"Why would they tear up phone books?”

"Who knows?" she said. "Why would they spray graffiti on walls? It's the breakdown of civilization.”

She kept jiggling her foot. He felt a sudden urge to slide his hand up under that short mini, break down a little civilization on his own.

"Do you like New Year's Eve?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer started telling him how much she hated New Year's Eve because it was always such a big disappointment. Nineteen, twenty years old, Andrew figured she'd had just worlds of experience with disappointing New Year's Eves. She told him she'd stayed home this past New Year's Eve, watched it all happening on television. She was in bed by twelve-thirty, she told him.

"Alone," she added, and rolled her blue eyes.

She was drinking a Campari with soda, something Andrew had never tasted. It looked like cherry soda.

"I've done everything a person can possibly do on New Year's Eve," she said, "and it's always ...”

"How old did you say you were?”

"I didn't," she said. "But I'm twenty-four.”

"Uh-huh," he said.

"How old are you?”

"Thirty-four.”

"I like older men," she said.

Older men, he thought.

"Also, I'm partial to blond men.”

"Lucky me," he said.

"Yes, with cat's-eyes," she said, and smiled. She had a nice wide smile. Good teeth, extravagant, brightly painted mouth.

"Anyway," she said, "as I was saying, I've gone to small parties and big parties, and I've stayed home and had quiet candlelit dinners for two, and I've gone out to fancy restaurants and had dinner with three other couples, and I've gone to bed alone, and I've also gone to bed together with someone, and it's always the same, it's always a bore, New Year's Eve is really a fucking bore.”

He wondered if she'd had one too many Camparis with soda.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Well, this year I went to bed early, too,”

he said.

"No, I don't mean on New Year's Eve. I mean what do you do?”

"Oh, for a living," he said. "I'm a private investigator.”

"Really?" Daisy said. "I thought that was only in books and movies.”

"In real life, too," he said, and smiled.

"Well, well," she said, and looked him over. Jiggling her foot. He leaned in closer.

He touched her knee only briefly, as if to emphasize what he was about to say, and then casually removed his hand, put it on the bartop, rested it there alongside his second Absolut martini on the rocks, couple of olives, please. She looked at his hand, as if wondering why it was no longer on her knee.

"I've been working a case uptown," he said.

"Near Smoke Rise. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?”

Only neighborhood he himself was vaguely familiar with, since it was up there that Emma Bowles lived. Well, he knew this neighborhood, too, more or less. One day, he'd have to really learn this city. It was frustrating not knowing a place.

"Where's that?" Daisy asked. "The Butler Street stop?”

"You've got it.”

"The G train, right?”

"Yes.”

"I know a girl who lives up there. She works for the telephone company, too. You have very nice hands, did you know that?”

"Well, no, I never noticed," he said, and held up both hands as if just discovering them on his wrists, and turned them this way and that under the soft light flooding the bar.

"Nice long fingers," she said. "And you take good care of your nails, I can see that.”

"Well, thank you," he said, and pulled back his hands as if embarrassed. Actually, he'd been told before that he had good hands. Beautiful hands, in fact. He'd once passed himself off as a concert pianist. This job he had in Seattle.

Gained access to an impresario's office by claiming he was a concert pianist.

"So what's it like being a private eye?”

Daisy asked.

"Same as any other job," he said, and put his hand on her knee again, and left it there this time.

She gave no indication that she knew it was there.

But neither did she ask him to take it away.

"I wish we had a private police force in this city," Daisy said, "'stead of what we've got now. I called the police the other day, it took them three hours to get there. I'm not complaining, you understand, but when a girl calls to say there's somebody outside her door yelling obscenities at her, you'd think the police could get there a little faster than three hours. You should hear some of the things he was saying. You must know cops, aren't they supposed to respond, whatever you call it, to something like that?”

"Oh, sure," he said.

"A girl calls 9-1-1 to tell them somebody's outside her door yelling all kinds of filth at her, isn't that something they should check on right away? Instead they come three hours later. Long after he was gone.”

"They sometimes figure that's exactly what'll happen," he said.

"What do you mean?”

“That he'll get tired and go away.”

"But suppose he hadn't? I mean, suppose he'd broken down the door or something?

I mean, you should have heard the things he was saying.”

"What sort of things?”

"Well, all the things he wanted to do to me.

It was like getting an obscene phone call right through your front door!" she said, and burst out laughing.

He laughed with her.

His hand was still on her knee.

He squeezed her knee.

"Speaking of obscene phone calls," she said, raising her eyebrows, "I guess you know that's pretty exciting.”

"What is?" he asked.

"Your hand on my knee that way. You have very nice hands," she said.

"Thank you," he said, and moved his hand higher on her leg, off the knee, up toward the hem of the skirt where it rode high on her thighs. She covered his hand with her own, stopping its upward glide. "You have very smooth hands," she said.

Moving her hand on his. Touching his hand.

Exploring his hand. "Are you married or anything?”

she asked.

"No.”

"I didn't see a ring, but you never know.”

"I'm not married," he said. "How about you?”

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, and took her hand from his and reached for her drink. He watched her drinking. Eyes closed, face lifted, the long, clean sweep of her throat.

"What's so ridiculous about that?" he said.

"Pretty girl like you ...”

"Oh sure.”

"You are, you know.”

"Sure, sure.”

"I wouldn't say so if I ...”

"My mouth is too big.”

"No, it's a beautiful mouth," he said, and slid his hand higher on her thigh.

"People say I look like Carly Simon," she said, and made no move to stop his hand.

"You have her mouth, that's for sure.”

"Yes, that's what I meant.”

"Exactly her mouth," he said.

"Mmm," she said.

He was working her leg now. Hand very high on her leg, the warm, soft, slightly moist feel of her flesh under the nylon high on her thigh.

"I don't plan to get married for a while yet," she said.

Looking into her drink. Ignoring what his hand was doing under her skirt.

"You know ..." she said.

"Yes?”

"I don't normally let men get this familiar with me.”

"If you want me to stop ...”

“In a public place," she said. "I mean, I just don't.”

Their eyes met.

"I live right around the corner," he said.

She didn't say anything for what seemed a very long time. Then she said, "You're a very attractive man, you know.”

"Thank you.”

"Very," she said. Her eyes studying his face.