Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [15]
“And I’ve never been in here before, and wondered if it was decent.”
“Well, it’s decent enough now. A few years ago it wouldn’t have been. And even now, a woman alone—”
“I see.” She sipped her drink. “So you thought I might be a hooker, and that’s what brought you in here. Well, I hate to disappoint you—”
“What brought me in here,” he said, “was the thought that you might be, and the hope that you weren’t.”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
“I’m an actress.”
“And a good one, I’ll bet.”
“I guess time will tell.”
“It generally does,” he said. “Can I get you another one of those?”
She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “I was only going to come in for one drink, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to do that. And I’ve had two, and that’s really plenty.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s not just the alcohol, it’s the time. I have to get home.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. Whether it’s Hell’s Kitchen or Clinton, it’s still necessary.”
“Well …”
“I insist. It’s safer around here than it used to be, but it’s a long way from Minnesota. And I suppose you get some unsavory characters in Minnesota, as far as that goes.”
“Well, you’re right about that.” At the door she added, “I just don’t want you to think you have to walk me home because I’m a lady.”
“I’m not walking you home because you’re a lady,” he said. “I’m walking you home because I’m a gentleman.”
The walk to her door was interesting. He had stories to tell about half the buildings they passed. There’d been a murder in this one, a notorious drunk in the next. And though some of the stories were unsettling, she felt completely secure walking at his side.
At her door he said, “Any chance I could come up for a cup of coffee?”
“I wish,” she said.
“I see.”
“I’ve got this roommate,” she said. “It’s impossible, it really is. My idea of success isn’t starring on Broadway, it’s making enough money to have a place of my own. There’s just no privacy when she’s home, and the damn girl is always home.”
“That’s a shame.”
She drew a breath. “Jim? Do you have a roommate?”
He didn’t, and if he had, the place would still have been spacious enough to afford privacy. A large living room, a big bedroom, a good-sized kitchen. Rent-controlled, he told her, or he could never have afforded it. He showed her all through the apartment before he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Maybe,” she said, when the embrace ended, “maybe we should have one more drink after all.”
She was dreaming, something confused and confusing, and then her eyes snapped open. For a moment she did not know where she was, and then she realized she was in New York, and realized the dream had been a recollection or reinvention of her childhood in Hawley.
In New York, and in Jim’s apartment.
And in his bed. She turned, saw him lying motionless beside her, and slipped out of bed, moving with instinctive caution. She walked quietly out of the bedroom, found the bathroom. She used the toilet, peeked behind the shower curtain. The tub was surprisingly clean for a bachelor’s apartment and looked inviting. She didn’t feel soiled, not exactly that, but something close. Stale, she decided. Stale, and very much in need of freshening.
She ran the shower, adjusted the temperature, stepped under the spray.
She hadn’t intended to stay over, had fallen asleep in spite of her intentions. Rohypnol, she thought. Roofies, the date-rape drug. Puts you to sleep, or the closest thing to it, and leaves you with no memory of what happened to you.
Maybe that was it. Maybe she’d gotten a contact high.
She stepped out of the tub, toweled herself dry, and returned to the bedroom for her clothes. He hadn’t moved in her absence and lay on his back beneath the covers.
She got dressed, checked herself in the mirror, found her purse, put on lipstick but no other makeup, and was satisfied with the results. Then, after another reflexive glance at the bed, she began searching the apartment.
His wallet, in the gray slacks he’d tossed over the back of a chair, held almost three hundred