Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

He shook out the match, opened the inner door — no lock on it — and started for the stairwell. Utter blackness. He struck another match, began working his way upstairs. He had burned at least a dozen matches before he reached the third floor. He struck another one, and searched for the apartment. The match went out an instant after he found 3B. He knocked on the door.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice said.

“It’s me. Reardon,” he said.

“Oh.” Surprise in her voice. “Just a second, okay?”

He heard her fumbling with the lock and the night chain. The door opened.

“Hi,” she said. “How’d you find me?”

“I’m a detective,” he said, shrugging.

“Well, come in, okay?”

He stepped into the apartment. A loft-sized room, candles burning — the flickering light he had seen from outside — a cannel coal fire going in the fireplace.

“I waited a half-hour,” she said, “and then figured you’d changed your mind.”

“I’m sorry. I tried to call you there. Here, too. as a matter of fact. The operator told me...”

“Yeah, they cut off my phone. Would you like a drink? I have scotch.” She paused, and then said, “Or would you prefer scotch? Or maybe

scotch?”

“Scotch, thanks.” Reardon said, smiling.

He watched her as she crossed to a table on the other side of the room. She was wearing a dark skirt, a white blouse, high-heeled pumps. He looked around the room. A low sofa. A beanbag chair. Pillows scattered on the floor. Paintings on the walls, barely visible in the candlelight.

“I hope you like it neat,” she said. “And without ice. They turned off the water, too.”

“Who’s they?” Reardon asked.

“The people who own the building. They’re tearing it down, but I refuse to move.” She poured from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. “I’m the last of the Mohicans,” she said. “All the other tenants have already knuckled under.”

“You mean you’re all alone here?”

“And here to stay,” she said, and handed him his glass. She lifted her own glass. “Cheers,” she said.

“Cheers.”

They both drank.

“Have they served eviction papers?” Reardon asked.

“I tore them up. Sit down, okay?”

They moved to the couch.

“If they send a marshal,” she said, “I’ll throw him down the stairs. It’s the principle of the thing. This is my home, you know? They’ve got no right to knock it down for a goddamn condominium. Do you know how much rent I’m paying here?”

“How much?”

“Two hundred a month. On a three-year lease.” She sipped at her scotch. “Hell with them. If they drag me out of here, I’ll camp outside with my furniture. The bulldozers can work around me.”

“Well... good luck,” Reardon said, and drank.

There was a long silence.

“So,” she said.

“So,” he said.

“What do I call you?”

“Bry,” he said. “For Bryan.”

“Good Irish name.”

“And you’re Martha.”

“Martha? Oh dear God, no. That’s what’s on my birth certificate, but I’ve been Sandy ever since the first grade.”

“Sandy then.”

“And Bry.”

There was another long silence.

“So,” she said again.

“So,” he said.

“I would have waited at Ringo’s longer, but I have a standing rule. Half an hour and goodbye.”

“The principle of the thing,” he said, smiling.

“The principle,” she said, returning the smile. “Listen, I feel awful about letting that man loose,” she said suddenly. “It was just... well... I believed what the D.A. was saying about you. We all believed it.”

“It wasn’t true,” Reardon said.

“I know that now. Or at least I think I do. You’re... you don’t seem to be the kind of man who could... well, I suppose that’s wrong, too. I suppose, in your line of work, you’re often forced to act violently. In violent situations, I mean. I mean... shit, forget it. Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

“And I’m sorry for the way I behaved. In the corridor, I mean. After

the verdict.”

“Good, so we’re both sorry,” Sandy said, “so that’s that, so what shall I make for dinner?”

“Well, I hadn’t...”

“I thought...”

“Well...”

“Or do you have other plans?”

“No,” he said. “No other plans.”

“Then...”

“Yes, sure.”

“Good. The choice is limited,” she said, “I haven’t got any gas, either. But we’ll figure something out, okay? How does fondue sound?”

“Fine.”

“And I’ve got some white wine chilling on the window sill.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Good,” she said, and rose from the couch. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a wall with a passthrough counter on it. He watched as she held a match to a kerosene lantern and then carried it to the kitchen table. “Candles are romantic as hell,” she said, “but they don’t give much light. Neither does this thing, for that matter. How’d the pioneer ladies manage?” She opened one of the cabinet doors, took out a bowl. “Do you think he’ll go to jail this time?” she asked.

“I hope they throw away the key,” he said. “Can I help you there?”

“No, I’m fine, just relax. More scotch?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Just help yourself, okay?”

“Thanks,” he said, and walked to the table against the living room wall. Pouring, he asked, “What do you do up there at Forbes?”

“I’m a researcher,” she said. “Stepping-stone to bigger and better things. Are you sure fondue’s okay?”

“Sure. Bigger and better like what?”

“Editor-in-chief, of course,” she said, smiling. “I mean, after all, I didn’t major in economics for nothing, did I? At Yale, no less.”

“I’m impressed,” he said, walking over to the passthrough counter, and sitting on a stool there.

“Don’t be,” she said, “it was a lark. Not too many girls there when I was a student, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” She came to the counter, passed a fondue pot over it. “Could you light this thing, please?” she said. “Or maybe you ought to carry it over to the table first. Right in front of the couch there.”

He took the pot, carried it over to the coffee table.

“How long have you been a cop?” she asked.

“Almost sixteen years. Do I just put a match to this?”

“Yeah, the Sterno. Don’t blow yourself up. And before then?”

“I dropped out of C.C.N.Y. when my father died. I was twenty-one, joined the force to support my kid sisters. My mother was already dead. I missed Vietnam because my lottery number was a high one.”

“Lucky you. How old are you, Bry?”

“Thirty-seven. And you?”

“Twenty-eight.” She paused, and then said, “Ever been married?”

“I’m separated,” he said. “You?”

“Twice,” she said, surprising him. “I’ll just make a small salad, okay?” she said. “This lettuce looks a bit wilted. Window boxes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. The first time, when I was sixteen,” she said. “My parents had it annulled. Next time just after I got out of Yale. To the sweetest man in the world, who decided his charms were being wasted on only one woman. I came home one day and found him in bed with two teenage girls and a Labrador retriever.” She looked up from the salad bowl, smiling. “I exaggerate,” she said. “But it was bad enough.”

“When did that one end?”

“Four years ago.”

There was a long silence.

“So,” she said. “Are you hungry?”