Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [9]
“You’re a monster,” Arthur said, the cigarette gripped tightly between his lips.
“I can live with that,” the detective said. “Now decide.”
Arthur looked at the gun, looked into the detective’s eyes, and inhaled.
“Again,” the detective said.
When Arthur was dead, the detective packed all the loose cigarettes into one of his bags and then stripped the corpse down to an undershirt and briefs. A press of a button erased the memory of the digital recorder, but just to be safe, he’d record over it when he got home.
He bundled everything up under one arm, pulled his hat further down on his brow, and walked east on 38th Street. It was still dark. No one saw him.
The body was found shortly after 9 in the morning.
The papers reported that an unidentified homeless man had died during the night, presumably of exposure. In the Daily News it was mentioned that he’d had a thin blanket over him, apparently donated by a good samaritan.
But, the News reported, it hadn’t been enough to keep him alive.
THE LAST SUPPER
BY CAROL LEA BENJAMIN
Greenwich Village
Harry was late. No problem. Esther knew just what to do while she waited, lifting her hand and finally catching the waiter’s eye. He was new, she thought, just a kid, his face eager, as if it really mattered to him what Esther wanted, as if he really cared. Was it a waiter thing, that faux interest? Or just a guy thing, appearing to be listening, to be interested, when they’re not. Harry used to be like that. Harry used to be a lot of things. But no more. She’d see him tonight, give him what he asked for, then never see him again.
Esther pushed her empty glass toward the kid, a relative of Howdy Doody perchance, tapping the table the way you’d tap the bar, let the bartender know you were ready for another, let him know to keep them coming.
“Another Manhattan?” the kid asked, picking up the empty glass. Definitely not Mensa material. Esther nodded. He said he’d be right back.
Yeah, Esther thought. It had taken seventeen minutes to get the first one, the kid everywhere but at her table. She had to remind him, too, then listen politely while he pretended he hadn’t forgotten, while he told her there was a backup at the bar, the place half empty. Maybe she’d insist on paying just so she could stiff him on the tip. No way was Esther going to be here again, no matter what she tipped the kid.
She looked over toward the door to see if Harry had come in. Maybe he was there already, looking around for her, not seeing her sitting in the far corner. But there was no Harry standing at the door, and anyway, the maître d’ would have brought him over. They wouldn’t leave him there on his own. Not Harry. Not at his favorite restaurant.
Esther checked her watch and then adjusted her scarf, the silk one he’d gotten her ten years ago when they were in England, the same kind the queen wore. That was when she was still running the office, still doing Harry’s books. That was before Cheryl.
Peering out into the dark, as dark as New York City ever gets, which is not very, Esther caught her own reflection in the pane, her droopy eyelids, the soft jaw line, her thinning hair, the crosshatching of wrinkles over her pale, thin lips, all the little tricks Mother Nature plays on you as you age, followed by the little tricks your husband plays on you when he notices.
Esther took the little pot of lip gloss out of her purse, dipping one finger in, absentmindedly refreshing the color of her mouth, feeling hungry as soon as she did, checking the door again. Where the fuck was Harry?
Dropping the lip gloss into the inside zippered pocket so that it wouldn’t get lost, Esther took out her pen, then snapped the purse closed. She put the pen on her napkin, where Harry would be sure to see it. She wanted him to know