John Lutz - Single white female

Not that he'd explain the facts to her in such crude terms. He was too practiced for that. But in varied and subtle ways, Mayfair would let her know that now he had enough knowledge to call some other programmer in to finish what Allie had started. Even his secretary Elaine must be getting proficient with a computer by now. The basic software systems were on line, so no problem there. Allie had gotten a small amount of money up front. Gradually, over a week or so, he'd make it clear that if she wanted to finish the Fortune Fashions job and see her big payday, he, Mayfair, was part of the arrangement. It wasn't so unusual; she'd probably done some job-related screwing before. Part of landing accounts, he was sure, a piece of the deal from the beginning, or there wouldn't have been a deal. An attractive woman didn't need a computer to figure that one out. Let's face it, software was software.

The door to the anteroom swung open, allowing traffic noises from the street ten stories below to infiltrate Mayfair's plush and virtually soundproof office. The thick carpet and drapes, the flocked wallpaper and deeply upholstered furniture, seemed even to absorb sound produced from within the office.

Elaine, tall and gaunt as a model, dressed in a Fashion Fortunes fall outfit, swished in and gave a perfunctory nod to Mayfair. They had run through a hot and frantic affair five years ago, but they seldom talked about it now. At the time, Elaine had known sleeping with him was a prerequisite for employment. Somewhat the same dilemma that would now face Allie.

Elaine had been married then, but so what? That shouldn't have caused such a problem. He hadn't asked her to go off on a guilt spree and spill her guts to her husband, who went crazy and came looking for Mayfair at home. At fucking home with the wife and kids, no less. Jesus, what a scene? What a night!

Mayfair had forgiven Elaine for that error in judgment, and even helped to find her an apartment to begin the single life she still led. So it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to the bitch. She was having a ball now, dating different guys all the time, accepting gifts from them. Not a hooker, though. A secretary. Mayfair almost smiled.

The scene with Elaine's husband had hastened his own inevitable divorce. His wife Janice and the kids were living in Buffalo now. Everybody seemed better off. Mayfair was certainly happier. He supposed that indirectly he could thank Elaine for that.

He leaned back in his padded swivel chair and studied her as she bent over a lower file drawer. She still had the wasp waist and trim ass, the nice legs.

Elaine straightened up and smoothed her skirt. Her calf muscle bulged as she swiveled a foot back into one of her high-heeled shoes that had worked halfway off. Sexy. She was holding the file folder she'd been seeking.

She turned around and aimed her heavily made-up eyes at him. "Allie Jones coming in today?"

"She's scheduled," Mayfair said. Allie was tutoring Elaine in the use of the computer. Elaine was in the fold and would stay there. Mayfair would point this out to Allie to let her know the company's need for her expertise had decreased. In fact, she herself wasn't (actually essential at this juncture. But he'd hint that there was no problem; she might increase her value in other ways.

About ten o'clock Allie and Elaine would isolate themselves in a corner of the anteroom, Elaine at her new computer while Allie sat next to her in the red and brown Danish chair pulled over from where it was usually angled against the wall. Patiently, professionally, Allie would explain to her what she was doing right, what she was doing wrong. Tutor and student got along well; both were bright and adaptable people.

He smiled. It wouldn't be long before they had something else in common.

She was getting ready to leave the apartment and ride the subway downtown to Fashion Fortunes when the phone rang.

Allie put down the earring post she'd been trying to work through her pierced ear, turned away from her dresser, and answered it with an absent '"Lo."

Her face became serious. Then bone white. She squared her jaw and slammed down the receiver so violently she pinched a finger between it and its cradle.

A psycho. Whoever had called her had to be a psycho to say the things she'd heard on the phone, to even imagine what he'd said he'd do to her. Go someplace and masturbate, buddy! But leave me alone!

She remembered the phone call she'd received earlier, the man who'd hung up on her. Might both callers have been the same person? It was possible, but she knew the odds didn't necessarily favor it. The city was full of sick people who regarded telephones as a means of erotic stimulation, Allie told herself. Any single woman in this city could expect that sort of phone call now and then. It was as much a part of life in Manhattan as being approached by panhandlers or getting cursed at by cabbies.

Yet there was a familiarity about both calls that chilled her. The man-or men-had used her name. Casually called her "Allie." Not "Allison"-"Allie." Old chums. More than chums.

She grimaced and wiped her hand on her skirt, as if contact with the phone had soiled it.

Jones was such a common surname that she'd used her first name in the phone directory instead of merely her initial, as was the custom of most single women who wanted or needed to be listed. Allie had been uneasy about it at the time, and would have preferred an unlisted number precisely so she could avoid the kind of sick and random call she'd just received. But because of her business she needed to be accessible. An unlisted number might cost her accounts and income. She couldn't afford it.

Returning to stand before her mirror, she told herself whoever had phoned almost certainly wouldn't call again. Probably a sicko hunched over a public phone and running his finger down the directory pages, calling whichever female names appealed to his perverted sexuality. Maybe right now he was making the same kinky suggestions to some woman whose name began with K, a woman he'd never met. No need to worry about a sorry individual like that, whose sex life depended on Ma Bell. Allie made herself smile out at the world from the mirror. A philosophical, confident smile.

But as she attempted again to work the earring post through her earlobe, her hand trembled so that it was almost impossible to do.

OTHER than a massive Hispanic youth in shorts and a black muscle shirt, Allie was the only customer in Goya's. Apparently the restaurant didn't do much morning business. On the other hand it was past nine o'clock; she'd slept late, then decided to eat a quick breakfast out before her appointment at Fortune Fashions with Mayfair's secretary. She'd pushed the obscene phone call as far from her thoughts as possible.

Goya's was cool. The air conditioner and ceiling fans were toiling away despite the briskness of the morning. The young guy in the shorts and sleeveless shirt ought to be shivering instead of sitting there calmly sipping what looked like a Pepsi and gazing out the window. His leather jacket was slung over the back of the chair next to him.

Graham Knox, the skinny waiter with the jug-ears and bushy black hair, took Allie's order, then returned a few minutes later with her bagel with cream cheese and coffee. He seemed to be fighting back a grin as he placed the order before her on the table. Good cheer was like pressure beneath the skin of his face.

He began to walk away, hesitated, then turned back. A neat pivot. He said, "I know simply being your neighbor gives me no claim on your time, but… well, I've gotten some good news and I guess I just have to share it with somebody. Business is slow and you're here and we are neighbors, so you're it, Allie. You mind?"