Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Amanda?” Rudy whispered.

She did not answer. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open.

“Amanda?”

He kissed her suddenly on her open unresponsive mouth and then glanced over his shoulder toward the door. He walked swiftly in the darkness, finding the slip bolt with his hands, locking the door, and then walking back to the bed. He unbuttoned her blouse and pulled her dress up over her thighs, sudden shocking silken touch unmoving, he kissed her again, unmoving, unknowing, exploration crisp and tight, darkness cramped on winter coats unmoving, white and vulnerable. The sound at the door startled him. Someone was trying the knob. He turned in the darkness, eyes wide. Beside him, Amanda breathed heavily and evenly through her open mouth. He crouched over her protectively. The knob rattled again. A knock sounded on the door. He did not answer. He touched her again, reassuringly in the darkness. She lay still, breathing through open mouth, eyes closed. There was silence on the other side of the door, calculating, speculative silence, silence. He crouched.

There was a sudden splintering sound. The door snapped inward, the slip bolt ripping free from the jamb under the force of the kick. A wedge of harsh light opened into the room, almost touching the bed. A man was silhouetted in the doorway. His hand reached for the light switch. The overhead lights went on in awful suddenness, illuminating the brass bed and the unconscious girl and the sailor crouched over her.

Matthew stood in the doorway, looking into the room. He nodded his head once. He closed the door gently behind him and said very softly, “Get away from her.”

“Wha... who the hell are you?”

“ Get away from her, sailor! ”

“Turn out that light! Can’t you see—?”

“I can see,” Matthew said. He took four quick steps into the room and seized Rudy by the front of his jumper, bringing back his right fist at the same time and then sending it forward in a straight piston-shaft punch that crashed into the sailor’s nose and started it bleeding.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Rudy said plaintively, feeling his nose.

“Get out of here,” Matthew said. “Get out now, before I kill you.”

“Who the hell are you?” Rudy asked, paling at the sight of his own blood. “Her boy friend or something?”

“Yes,” Matthew said, and he said it with such conviction that Rudy backed immediately toward the door. He glanced at the bed again, and then looked at Matthew and said, “You son of a bitch,” and then ran swiftly into the corridor, slamming the door shut behind him. Matthew stood by the bed and looked quizzically at Amanda where she lay with her blouse unbuttoned, the skirt pulled to her waist. He looked at her for a long time. Then he pulled down her skirt and covered her with his own coat.

He turned out the light and left the room.

Gillian woke her at four in the morning. She was still asleep in the center of the large double bed. A blanket had been thrown over her. The coats were all gone now.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Gillian said.

“All right,” Amanda answered.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel, or will you stay here?”

“Here.”

“Shall I undress you?”

“No. Do it myself.”

“All right, sit up.”

“What time’s it?”

“Four.”

“My train’s at noon. Is everybody gone?”

“Everybody.”

“What time’s it?”

“I just told you. Four. You missed some good scrambled eggs.”

“Mmmm.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“You’re half undressed already,” Gillian said.

Amanda smiled sleepily. “Oh, g’ness, I feel awful.” She took off her blouse and said, “Do you have extra pajamas?”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry I passed out.”

“That’s all right,” Gillian said.

“I think I’m...” She pulled a face. “Damnit, yes, I am. Will you get my bag for me, Gilly?”

“Sure,” Gillian said. She started for the door and then stopped. “Oh. Matthew said to tell you good night. He said he would call you.”

“What for?”

Gillian shrugged. “I guess he likes you.”

“Well, I don’t like him,” Amanda said. “Gilly, could you please hurry? I’m really...”

“Yes, yes,” she said, and she went out of the room.

He tried to reach Amanda the next day.

Gillian, fuzzy with sleep, answered the telephone. “Hullo?” she said.

“Gillian?”

“Yes?”

“Matthew Bridges.”

“Yes?”

“May I speak to Amanda, please?”

“No.”

“What?”

“She’s not here, I mean.”

“Oh. Well, where’s she staying, Gillian?”

“She’s not. She went home. Caught a train at noon.”

“Oh.”

“Is it important?”

“I guess not. I just wanted to see how she was.”

“Hung over,” Gillian said. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Two-thirty.”

“I promised my mother I’d be there at two.”

“You wouldn’t know Amanda’s number, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Gillian paused. “Is this important, Matthew?”

“No, no, I just... where does she live?”

“In Minnesota.”

“Yes, but where?”

“A town called Otter Falls.”

“Otter Falls, right.”

“Does that help?”

“Yes. Thank you very much, Gillian. And Merry Christmas.”

He hung up and began fishing in his pocket for change. The booth was set at the far end of the Madison Avenue bar. Through the closed glass doors, he could see a WAC lieutenant sipping at a tall drink, her legs crossed. He spread his change on the ledge and was about to dial the operator when he remembered what time it was. Amanda wouldn’t even be home yet, not if she’d caught a twelve noon train. He scooped up his change, opened the booth doors, and walked to the bar. He was putting his change back into his pocket when the WAC said, “No luck, Major?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Matthew answered, smiling. He knew instantly that he would pick her up. He studied her casually, with no sense of anticipation, no feeling of excitement, only with the sure knowledge that they would be spending the day, and perhaps the night, together. She was a brunette with clean-chiseled features, her hair curling close to her face. She seemed in her early twenties, with bright brown eyes and a generous mouth. She smiled back at him, and then looked at her watch.

“Well,” she said. “I’ll give him another five minutes.”

“That accent sounds close to home,” Matthew said.

“Virginia,” she answered. “Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Glen City.”

“Oh.” She did not seem to know the town. “I’m from Charlottesville.”

“I’ve been there,” Matthew said, and he smiled lazily. The WAC looked at her watch again, but with no sense of urgency. “My name’s Matthew Bridges,” he told her.

“I’m Kitty Newell.” She smiled. “Should we salute or something?”

They spent the afternoon in the Central Park Zoo, and then Matthew found an open ticket broker and wangled two seats to Oklahoma . They had dinner at Sardi’s, saw the show, and then stopped off at Billy Rose’s, where they sat at the bar for a nightcap. When they got out into the street again, it was almost two in the morning.

Matthew hailed a cab and said, “Where are you staying?”

“I’m using a girl friend’s apartment,” Kitty said. “She’s away for the week. Skiing.”

“I’ll drop you off.” They settled into the back seat of the cab. Kitty took his arm and snuggled close to him.

“I had a good time,” she said.

“So did I. It seems a shame to end the night so soon.”