Ed McBain - Kiss

He waited.

"Why don't we just go to a movie or something?”

she said.

"If you like.”

"No, what I'd like ... never mind.”

"Tell me what you'd like," he said.

"I'd sound like that guy yelling in the hallway.”

"Tell me what he said.”

His voice a whisper. His hand under her skirt.

"I'll tell you later," she whispered.

"Maybe.”

"Tell me now.”

"What do you think he said?”

"He probably said he wanted to kiss that Carly Simon mouth of yours.”

"He said he wanted to do something to it, that's for sure.”

"What did he want to do to it?”

"What do you think he wanted to do to it?”

"Why don't we go up to my apartment?”

"Why should we?”

"Too public here.”

"Doesn't seem to be hampering you any.”

"I don't want to get arrested," he said, and smiled.

"Do they arrest private eyes?”

"All the time," he said.

Especially if you've got your hand this high up a woman's skirt, he thought. Bust you - for molestation or disorderly conduct or trying to find a trade route to China.

"Are you carrying a gun?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Do you have one?”

"Yes.”

"Where?”

"In the apartment. Want to come see it?”

"I've never seen a gun," she said.

"Right around the corner," he said.

She looked at him.

"You really want to do this, huh?" she said.

"Yes, I think it might be nice," he said.

"Nice," she repeated, nodding.

"Yes.”

"I guess it would be.”

"But that's up to you.”

"Oh sure, that's up to me.”

"It is.”

"We know each other ten minutes ...”

"Longer than that.”

"And you've got me all ...”

She let the sentence trail. She shook her head. She picked up her glass again, drained it, took an ice cube in her mouth, sucked on it, let it fall back into the glass.

"You do this a lot, don't you?" she said.

"Do what?”

"Get women all ..." She shook her head again, and then lifted the glass to her lips and tilted another ice cube into her mouth. Rolled it around inside her mouth again. Let it drop into the glass again. "How do I know you haven't got something I wouldn't want to catch?" she asked.

"I haven't got anything.”

"How do I know?”

"I tested negative.”

"So did I," she said.

Still looking at him, studying him. Jiggling her foot. Nodding. Thinking it over. Eyes locked with his. Nodding.

"Incidentally," she said, "I'm not sure I can stand much more of this.”

"Shall I stop?”

"It's getting sort of excruciating, if you know what I mean.”

"Mm-h'm.”

Smiling at her. Working her.

"I mean ... did you see that movie Harry and Sally?”

“When Harry Met Sally," he said.

Correcting her. Smiling. Working her steadily.

"Remember that scene in the restaurant?" she asked.

"Yes?”

"What she did in the restaurant?”

"Yes?”

"Well, either you quit what you're doing ...”

"She was faking," he said.

"I won't be faking," she said. "I promise you.”

"Let's go look at my gun," he said.

"Let me go pee first," she said, and took his hand away and rolled her eyes as if to say Whooo, and slid off the stool, her skirt riding up higher on her thighs. He watched her as she walked toward the rest rooms. And thought How easy, how perfectly goddamn easy.

And at the same time wondered why he'd bothered- when really, you know, he didn't give a damn anymore about any woman in the world.

At a little past six that Tuesday evening, Fat Ollie Weeks walked into the squadroom.

"You still mad at me?" he asked.

It was twelve degrees Fahrenheit outside, but he was wearing only blue jeans, a white shirt, a tan sports jacket, dark blue socks, and brown loafers. The shirt had either a ketchup stain or a bloodstain on its front, and it was unbuttoned at the throat. A tuft of black hair sprouted at the opening, curling up over it. Bread crumbs or cake crumbs, some kind of crumbs, were caught in the tangled hairs. Ollie needed a shave. And a bath.

"'Cause you won't be mad once I tell you what I found out," he said.

"What'd you find out?”

"I found out why this Tilly character was uptown on Ainsley.”

"Why?" Carella asked.

"Why was he up there? Or why was I doing you a favor?”

"What favor was that, Ollie?”

"The favor of asking around about your case. On my own time.”

"Gee," Carella said. "You are still mad, ain't you?”

"No, I'm very happy to have my caseload increased.”

"What you think is I dumped a homicide in your lap, ain't that right?”

"No, what would give me that idea?”

"I don't know what, since it's an open-and-shut FMU.”

"Then don't worry about it.”

"Who's worried about it? You want to know why Tilly was up there, or not?”

"Why was he up there?”

"He was boffin' the broad in apartment 22.”

"How do you know that?”

"I told you. I been asking around. Tilly used to know this broad from before he went to the slammer on an assault rap, did you know about the assault rap?”

"Yes, Ollie.”

"What he done, Tilly, he nailed this fuckin spic who called him a fag. Which he ain't, by the way, since he was up there boffin' this broad the night before some other spic hung him from the ceiling after smoking him.”

"Who says?”

"The spic? I'm guessing. This neighborhood the building's in is strictly San Juan nowadays. They finally took over from the niggers on that section of Ainsley, you don't know what fuckin headaches it's causin' us.

Anyway, you want to talk to this broad, she's in apartment 22, her name is Carmen Sanchez.”

"Have you already talked to her?”

"No, I got all this from askin' around.”

"Who'd you ask?”

"You got your people, I got mine.”

"An informant?”

"What else is there?”

"In Diamondback?”

"No, on the fuckin French Riviera.”

"Want to give me his name?”

"I would be happy to give you his name, except it ain't a him, it's a her. There are ladies in this city, you know, who sometimes fall afoul of the law, ah yes," Ollie said, and fell into his dreaded W. C. Fields imitation. Carella winced.

"Did your informant mention how Tilly happened to end up on the ceiling?”

"All my informant told me, m'dear, is that Tilly was upstairs boffin' the Sanchez girl all night long, who I wouldn't mind boffin' myself, from what I hear she looks like.”

"Did your informant actually see Tilly up there?”

"I do not know, m'friend, I do not know. What I suggest you do is go up there yourself and talk to the lady in 22, who according to what I've been told is something to observe, ah yes.”

Carmen Sanchez was a woman in her late twenties, tall and loose-limbed, with a mop of curly black hair, eyes to match, and a mouth made for singing. Or so she told them at once.

Carmen was on her way to a singing lesson. Just putting on her coat, in fact, when the doorbell rang. The coat was as red as her very snug, long-sleeved sweater. A long striped muffler around her throat was the color of the snug sweater and her very snug jeans. Carmen said she had to leave immediately, she did not have time to talk to the police. Meyer said this would only take a minute.

"Sure, I know a police minute," Carmen said, and looked at her watch. "Okay, five minutes, that's all I've got. I'm not kidding you. I have to be there at eight.”

"Five minutes," Carella promised.

"I mean it," Carmen said. "I have to pay her for the full hour no matter how late I am.

So let's do this fast, okay?”

"Roger Tilly," Carella said, getting straight to the point.

"I figured.”