Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“Jessie?” he called.

There was no answer.

He draped his muffler over the coat, called “Jessie?” again, and walked into the living room. There was the aroma of dead ashes in the room. And stale cigarette smoke. Unwashed brandy snifters were on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. A woman’s high-heeled shoe rested on its side on the hearth.

Sarge walked to the staircase leading to the upper stories.

“Jessie?” he said again, and started up the carpeted steps. A stained-glass window on the first-floor landing, sunlight streaming through it. To the right, the dining room and kitchen. He went up to the second floor, where the bedrooms were. An oak door at the end of the hallway, a brass doorknob. He twisted the doorknob, opened the door a crack.

“Jessie?” he whispered.

She was asleep in the canopied four-poster bed on the other side of the room, quilt pulled to her chin, long black hair spread on the pillow. He stepped into the room, stood watching her silently for a moment, the exquisite nose and high cheekbones, the fair complexion, exactly the picture of their mother when she was young. “Jessie?” he said again.

She stirred.

Sleepily, she said, “What time is it?”

“Half past one,” Sarge said.

“Crack of dawn,” Jessica said, and rolled over, her eyes still closed.

He stood watching her.

“Late party last night,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“You ought to get up, though,” he said. “Day’s half gone already.”

“What time did you say?” Her eyes still closed.

“One-thirty.”

“Mmm,” she said. One eye opened. “I feel awful,” she said, and eased herself to a sitting position. “Oh, boy, do I feel awful.”

“I’ll make you some coffee,” Sarge said.

“I don’t want any coffee,” Jessica said.

She threw back the quilt, swung her long legs over the side of the bed, and sat there a moment, her hands folded in her lap, head bent, long black hair hiding half her face. She was wearing a pale blue babydoll nightgown. She curled her toes, stared at her feet.

“Has Olivia gone back to Phoenix?” she asked.

“Early this morning.”

“Good riddance.” she said, and got off the bed. She was wearing no panties under the nightgown. There was a flash of dark pubic hair as she came off the bed. stretched, yawned, and then padded silently to the bathroom. Sarge heard her spitting into the sink. He heard the shower starting.

“What’s going on. Sarge?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What?”

“I said...”

“I can’t hear you. Come in here, will you?”

He went to the bathroom door, stood in the doorframe. She was reaching into the shower stall, testing the stream of water with her right hand.

“Why can’t I go to Switzerland?”

“Because you’re needed here,” Sarge said.

“Since when am I needed anywhere? It’s my signature that’s needed, isn’t it?”

“Well... yes. Or perhaps not. It depends. Your signature won’t be needed unless it’s asked for. But in that event, the Captain wants you here in New York.”

“Are we buying something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“But is that why you sold all your paintings?”

She pulled the nightgown over her head, stood there naked a moment, her back to him. and then stepped into the shower.

“Is it?” she asked.

“Let’s say we needed some ready cash,” Sarge said.

He could see her soaping herself behind the frosted glass door of the shower stall. He remembered once — when they were both children — the beating his father had given him because he’d been in the bathroom while Jessica was bathing. Six years old. she was then. Playing with a rubber toy in the bathtub, suds all around her. Sarge sitting on the toilet bowl, the lid down, watching her as she bathed. Eight years old at the time.

“So you were the one who had to make the sacrifice, huh?” Jessica said.

“It wasn’t such a sacrifice.”

Wanted to kill his father that night. Lay in bed, aching everywhere, planning how he would kill his father.

“Don’t lie to me,” Jessica said. “I know what those paintings meant to you.”

Soaping herself. Distorted image behind the frosted glass. Hands gliding over her body.

“Was it the Captain’s idea to sell them?”

Water splashing. Her voice sounding hollow in the stall.

“Yes.”

“Really needs money that badly, huh?”

“No, he simply felt they were the most expendable asset.” He shrugged. “This isn’t a big deal, Jessie.”

“Tell me what it is,” Jessica said.

“I’d rather not,” he said.

“Why?”

“Knowing can be dangerous.”

She turned off the water. He heard her sighing deeply. Behind the glass, she ran her hands over her body again, sweeping droplets from it. She opened the stall door then, and stepped onto the tiled floor, naked, reaching for a towel. Tardily, she said, “Turn your back.” And then, the towel wrapped around her already, she said, “Never mind.”

She started out of the bathroom, paused where he was standing in the doorframe, reached up to touch his cheek gently, smiled, and then went into the bedroom. He turned to watch her.

“What’s Olivia giving up?” she asked.

“Well...”

“Nothing, right?”

She went to her dresser, opened the top drawer, took from it a pair of rose-colored, lace-edged panties and a matching garter belt. She rummaged in the drawer, searching for a pair of similarly hued nylons.

“The Captain wouldn’t dream of asking her to sell her precious horses in Kentucky, would he?”

“Well, the horses aren’t worth all that much,” Sarge said.

“Still, he didn’t ask her, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Jessica went to the bed, dried herself, tossed the towel aside, and fastened the garter belt around her waist. She did not ask him to turn his back, and he did not. He remembered the first time he’d seen her breasts. Thirteen years old, she was, the Captain would have killed him. Standing only in panties at the bathroom sink, breasts cupped in her hands, looking at herself in the mirror. Are they too small? she’d asked. He’d assured her they weren’t too small.

“Of course not,” she said, sitting on the bed again and extending one leg, pulling a nylon onto it, smoothing it up over her calves. “You have to sell your paintings, I have to give up my trip to Switzerland, but Olivia just goes her merry way.”

He said nothing. He watched as she put on the other stocking, clasped it to the garter belt, and stepped into her panties. Again, the flash of dark pubic hair. He remembered once — this was later, when they were teenagers — watching her dress for the beach. “My summer trim,” she’d said, smiling, and then stepped into the bikini.

She went back to the dresser, took a half-slip from it, and put it on. No bra. She had not worn a bra for as long as he could remember. She walked to her dressing table, sat, crossed her long legs, picked up a hairbrush and began brushing out her hair.

“I’ve still got all my pre-Columbian stuff,” Sarge said, shrugging.

“How kind of him to let you keep it,” Jessica said. She was looking at herself in the mirror, stroking her hair with the brush, preening for the mirror, sitting straight upright, firm breasts moving only slightly to the rhythm of the brush strokes. She smiled at him. “Tell me what the big deal is,” she said.

“I can’t,” he said. “Not till after Christmas.”

“What’s so special about before Christmas?”

“Big secret,” Sarge said, smiling.