Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

He nodded.

“You didn’t get that, did you?” she said.

“Get what?”

“What I just said. About giving great fire.”

“No. What do you mean? Get what?”

“Do you know what giving great head is?”

“No.”

“What a pity,” she said. “Is there any more of this left in the pitcher?”

“Some.”

“Pour me another one. will you?”

“And then I have to go,” he said, rising.

“Tell me about the deal.”

“Can’t,” he said.

“Secrets, secrets,” she said, smiling.

He took her glass and went to the bar. He poured into the glass. The fire crackled. He brought the glass back and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” she said, and patted the sofa beside her. “Sit down. Come sit next to your little sister, Sarge. And tell her what the big secret is.”

“I can’t, Jessie. So please stop asking.”

“Sit down,” she said, and pulled her legs up under her, sleek knees shining in the light of the fire. He sat beside her.

“Tell me the big secret,” she said.

“No,” he said, and looked at his watch. “I’d better go.”

“Not until you tell me what the big secret is.”

“There is no possible way you can convince me to...”

“There is a possible way,” she said. “Move over,” she said, “I want to stretch out.”

“You can have the whole sofa,” he said, “I’m leaving.”

“No, Sarge,” she said, “don’t go yet.”

“Well...”

She shifted her weight, stretched her legs out, and put her head in his lap.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Olivia would kill me,” he said.

“You’ve been killed before,” she said. “For sharing secrets with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“That time in the bathroom. Do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“Me in the tub, starkers. You sitting on the potty.”

“I remember.”

“Pop beat the shit out of you,” she said.

He nodded.

“Was it worth it?”

“No,” he said, and smiled.

“It was worth it, you liar,” she said, and shifted her head in his lap. “Do you remember the other time?”

“What other time?” he said, remembering at once.

“When we were still kids? In the bathroom again? Don’t you remember?”

“I have to go,” he said.

“When I asked you if they were too small?”

“I guess I remember.”

“I’ll bet you do,” she said. “They were too small, I was only thirteen.” She moved her head to look up at him. “You had a hard-on, Sarge.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. I saw it.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I saw it.”

“No.”

“They were small,” she said again. “But not now,” she said, and settled her head in his lap again. “Oh, my,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“You know what,” she said.

“Jessie...”

“Mmm,” she said.

“Jessie...”

“Be still,” she said. “Just sit still, Sarge. Sit still... and tell me what the big secret is.”

From Joseph Phelps’s Sutton Place apartment, you could see the Delacorte fountain in the middle of the East River. Phelps thought the fountain cheapened the neighborhood, goddamn thing shooting up a spray of water into the air every hour, like a fire hydrant turned on in the middle of a Sheepshead Bay street. His wife thought the fountain was “exciting.” Kitty found a lot of things exciting that Phelps found either boring or stupid. “Exciting” was his wife’s favorite word. She found Dijon mustard “exciting.” The only thing Phelps and Kitty agreed on as exciting were her breasts. Kitty had terrific breasts. “Have you ever seen such exciting breasts?” she would ask. He agreed. They were exciting. But she was using the word to mean beautiful or extraordinary or compelling, the way she would have said a sunset was exciting or a restaurant was exciting or a Beethoven sonata was exciting or even the goddamn Delacorte fountain was exciting. He thought they were exciting because they were exciting. Full and round and firm and pearly white, with large pink nipples. Exciting.

During cocktails that night, Kitty was wearing a low-cut dress that showed her breasts to excellent advantage. They were sitting alone in the living room overlooking the East River where the goddamn Delacorte fountain was shooting up into the air. Cheap goddamn fountain, cost Delacorte millions of dollars probably. Supposed he could afford it, the money they were charging for paperbacks these days. Kitty had black hair cut in a wedge. Kitty had brown eyes. Kitty had exciting breasts and a nose she had picked from Dr. Gerardi’s book of possible noses.

“Well, did you pick your nose?” Phelps had asked when she’d got back from the doctor’s office that day three years ago.

“Very funny,” she’d said. “I’m sorry you don’t find this experience as exciting as I do.”

The creamy tops of Kitty’s breasts were exposed now in the scoop-necked black dress she was wearing. Her right hand, the fingers widespread, rested idly on her left breast. Several travel brochures were spread on the cocktail table.

“I thought three days in Guadeloupe.” she said, “that’ll make it the fourth, then on to Martinique, which is supposed to be exciting. If we left on New Year’s Day...”

The telephone rang.

“Shit,” Kitty said.

“Excuse me,” Phelps said, and rose from the couch.

“Please make it short, Joe,” she said. “I really do have to go over this with you.”

The phone was still ringing. Phelps went into the study and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“Joe? It’s Lowell.”

“Yes, Lowell.”

“I just got a call from the CFTC,” Rothstein said.

“What? Where are you?”

“I’m still at the office.”

“What’d they want?”

“They want to see us.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“They didn’t say.”

Phelps was silent for several moments.

“Joe?” Rothstein said.

“They’ve got our reports,” Phelps said. “They’ll be asking for disclosure. won’t they?”

“Even so, there’s nothing to worry about,” Rothstein said. “Don’t sweat it, we’ll see what it’s about tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Okay,” Phelps said, “thanks for letting me know.”

His hand was sweating on the telephone receiver. He replaced the receiver on the cradle, wiped his hand on his trouser leg, and went back into the living room.

“Who was that?” Kitty asked.

“Lowell.”

“What’d he want?”

“Nothing that couldn’t have waited till morning,” Phelps said.

Kitty looked at him. He avoided her glance. Picked up his martini glass. His hand was shaking.

“Joe?” she said.

“Mmm.”

“Are you into anything I should know about?”

“No,” he said. “Into anything? No. What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” she said, but she was still looking at him.

“Tell me about the trip.” he said.

A cannel coal fire was going on the grate. The room was candlelit, as it had been the first time Reardon was here. They were drinking the white wine he had brought with him. Sandy was wearing what he guessed were called lounging pajamas. He was wearing a sweater over a sports shirt. They both sat on pillows before the fireplace. The wind outside was fierce. Winter had returned with a vengeance.

“I’m an idiot when it comes to money,” he said, “so please keep it simple.”

“Well, let’s see,” Sandy said. “You want to know about buying long.”

“Yes.”

“As opposed to selling short?”

“Is there selling short?”