Al Sarrantonio - Cold Night

"There's nothing else."

What was it about her? When he held her it was as if he'd held someone familiar and yet far away. She was like a stranger he had always known.

She stood up; just straightening her skirt she looked ready for tennis. "I should go."

"Yes."

"I'll. . call you later."

There was awkward silence as he stared at her.

"I'll talk to you later," she said, and left.

Paine went into his own office and turned on the lights and sat down. His mind was dancing. He closed his eyes but the dancing wouldn't go away. It was like being drunk without the happy places that drunkenness would at least take you before dropping you back into the real world. He could still feel Rebecca Meyer's smooth flesh against his hands. He wanted to touch her again. But at the same time he wanted to push her away. He looked at his hands and remembered her, and then he closed his eyes and kept them closed.

At eight-thirty he dialed the phone. Someone answered and told him to wait a moment. The line cut off and music came on. Christ, even there? he thought. Then the music went away. There was the sound of a distant typewriter and someone said, "Bob Petty."

"Hello, Bobby," Paine said.

Petty sighed. "How have you been, Jack?"

"Not too bad. I need background on a guy named Les Paterna."

"Mind if I ask why?"

"He's a creep, but doesn't act like one. At least not anymore. I know the bastard's got a record eight blocks long."

"I'll see what I can do." Then Petty added, "Dannon's after your ass again."

"Dannon's a fuckhead."

"I saw him yesterday. He tried to get me to help reopen your case."

"And-"

"I told him to fuck himself. But I don't think that'll stop him. He wants to bring criminal charges against you."

"Jesus."

"I don't know how far he'll get. Listen, Jack. ."

Paine waited through the silence, and finally said, "Bobby, I know what you want to ask. The answer is still, I don't know what happened. Only Dannon knows, and he says what he says."

"What's the problem with you and Dannon, Jack?"

"He was always a fuck. He never treated me like a partner. He treated me like shit. I saw him take payoffs the first day I rode with him. He never even tried to hide it from me. The last good word he said to me was, 'Want a little of this?' and when I told him no he turned to stone. He knew I wasn't bastard enough to say anything about it, but from then on he didn't trust me. I always kept an eye on my back."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

"Because then I was a fucking cop and now I'm not a cop anymore. If he tries to go civil with me I'll blow his fucking face all over the newspapers. Tell him that for me. I don't care what he thinks about me anymore, or what any other fucking cop thinks about me, including you, Bobby, if you want to know."

"All right, Jack, take it easy. I just thought you should know."

"I appreciate it, Bob." He took a long breath. "I do."

"You've still got a few buddies over here."

"Name another one."

"I'll get back to you about this Paterna creep," Petty said, and hung up.

There came a knock at the door. Paine looked up to see Jimmy Carnaseca standing there.

"Morning, Jack," he said.

Paine held up a tired hand in greeting.

"You look like shit," Carnaseca said. "What you need is sex."

Paine stared at him.

"Don't you want to know how I've been, Jack?"

"How've you been, Jimmy?"

"Just fine. Listen," he said, fiddling with the strap of his camera bag, "you really should try one of these hubby-cheater things. You never can tell what's going to happen."

"What happened, Jimmy?"

Carnaseca winked and walked past him. "Never mind. You really do look like shit." He laughed and went down the hall.

The lights were still on in his apartment. He opened the door loudly, letting it swing back against the doorstop with a bang, then closed it and went in. The bags were gone from the side of the chair. There was only one coat there now. He heard movement in the bedroom.

She was leaving the room as he walked in.

"Oh!" she said. "I thought I heard someone at the door." She smiled uneasily. "How are you?"

She was wearing a denim skirt and a turtleneck top that showed the outline of her small waist and breasts.

He shrugged. "And you?"

"I'm okay. I hope you don't mind me taking those things. ."

"Good a time as any. Should I leave?"

"No, of course not. I'm. . almost finished."

"That's good."

"Why don't you. . make some coffee or something? I'd like some."

"All right."

He went into the kitchen. He heard her hurrying through the bedroom. When he came out with two mugs and set them on the coffee table, she had four bags filled with clothes and a couple of garment bags laid neatly across the arm of the chair with her coat.

"You'll need help," he said.

"I've-" she began again. "Someone is coming up to help me."

He gave her the coffee and sat. She perched on the thin arm of the chair with the garment bags on it. She didn't look at him. He found himself thinking again about her moving under him, trying, her eyes going from moist to rock-hard, the fright in the corners filling them up-

"I don't know what I'm supposed to say," she said.

"Neither do I."

"Jack. ." she said, trying to make herself sound reasonable, "I really don't know if this is a good way to end things."

"It's as good a way as any."

"Do you have to be cryptic? You always sound so cynical about everything."

He said nothing.

"Jack," she said, "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wish it had worked out. I think I'll always wish that."

"Always?"

"Yes."

"As long as it was both our faults, I guess that's okay." Something changed in her face. He knew he had chipped away a piece of her.

"Ginny," he said, "I'll always feel that you thought, deep down inside, that almost everything was my fault."

"Yes, that's true."

"Can you tell me why?"

"Because you didn't have to do the things you did. You could have been better than what you are."

"I don't understand, Ginny."

Her face began to change. The self-consciousness was gone; it was as if she had realized that this was the last time she would be able to say these things.

"Goddammit," she said. "What do you think it was like living with you? I never knew what the hell you were going to do. Every time I talked to you I didn't know which Jack I was going to get-the happy one, the one in a black mood, the wiseass one or. ."

She bit her lip.

"Or what?"

"The one with the gun to his head! Don't you think I knew about the box of shells in the kitchen cabinet? Goddammit, Jack!" She began to cry.

She stood up and gathered her things. She threw her coat over her arm, scooping the bags of clothes into her two hands. "I've got to go."

"Can't I help you?"

"I'll. . meet him downstairs. I've got to go."

She opened the door and walked out.

He rose and put his hand on the door. He stood with it open, listening for the elevator, and then it came. The elevator doors kissed shut and he heard it go down.

Behind him, the telephone rang.

"Jack?" Bob Petty's voice said.

"Yeah."

"Are you okay? You sound strange."

"I'm all right. You have something on Paterna?"

"Sort of. Paterna is dead."

A slight chill rose up Paine's back as Petty went on.

"He hung himself in his bedroom. His girlfriend found him about three this morning. She says they had a fight and she sent him home alone last night."

"Was there a suicide note?"

"No. That's one of the reasons we're holding the girlfriend. But there's something else funny. I started poking around and hit a brick wall on this guy. There wasn't any Les Paterna seven years ago."