Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [90]
—Maybe he didn’t ask nicely.
Tilson smiled.
—What does your friend do?
—She’s not working right now.
—How about you?
—I’m a secretary.
Tilson put his fingers in the air and pretended to type.
—That’s it.
—So what happened to her?
—Happened?
—You know. The scars.
—She was in a car accident.
—She must have been going pretty fast.
—We were hit from behind. She went through the windshield.
—You were in the accident too!
—That’s right.
—What if I were to say the name Billy Bowers. Mean anything to you?
—No. Should it?
—How about Geronimo Schaffer?
—No.
—Okay, Kathy. Can I call you Kathy?
—Anything but Kathy.
—Okay then, Kate. You seem smart.
—Thanks.
—It’s not the first time I’ve seen a girl end up like your friend.
—Drunk?
—Sometimes they get battered about. Sometimes it’s a broken nose. Sometimes . . .
He let his voice drift off for emphasis. I smiled.
—You’re way off the page on this one, Detective.
—Maybe. But a girl can get in over her head. I understand that. All she wants is to make a living. Like any of us. It’s not how she thought she was going to end up. But then who ends up like they thought they would? They call em dreams for a reason, right?
Finneran grunted in appreciation of Tilson’s turn of phrase.
When they brought me back to the front of the station house, Eve was there slumped on a bench. The matron stood by in full uniform. She helped me get Eve into the back of a cab while Tilson and Finneran looked on, hands in pockets. As we drove away, Eve with eyes closed began mimicking the sound of a trumpet.
—Evey. What’s going on?
She gave a girlish laugh.
—Extra! Extra! Read all about it!
Then she leaned on my shoulder and purred herself to sleep.
She looked done in, all right. I stroked her hair like she was a little kid. It was still wet from the precinct showers.
At Eleventh Street, I gave the cabby an extra buck to help me get her up the stairs. We dumped her on my bed with her legs dangling off the mattress. I called the apartment at the Beresford but no one answered. So I got a pot of warm water from the kitchen and washed her feet. Then I took off her dress and tucked her in bed in a camisole that cost more than my entire outfit, shoes included.
Back at the station house, after the desk sergeant got me to sign for Eve’s belongings, he had poured a single item from a large manila envelope. It fell on the desk with a delicate clunk. It was an engagement ring and it had a diamond you could skate on. From the second I picked it up, it made my palms sweat. So I took it from my pocket now and put it on the kitchen table. The flapper’s jacket, I threw that in the trash.
Looking at Eve asleep, I wondered what the hell was going on. How did she end up drunk in an alley? What happened to her shoes? And where was Tinker? Whatever their story, Eve was breathing easy now—for the moment forgetful, vulnerable, at peace.
It’s a purposeful irony of life, I suppose, that we never get to see ourselves in that state. We can only pay witness to our waking reflection, which to one degree or another is always fretting or afraid. Maybe that’s why young parents find it so beguiling to spy on their children when they’re fast asleep.
In the morning as we drank coffee and ate fried eggs with Tabasco, Eve was her chipper self—telling me what a bore the south of France had been with its moldy buildings and crowded beaches and Wyss making a scene over every von This and von That. If it weren’t for the croissant and casinos, she said, she would have walked all the way home.
I let her chatter on for a while, but when she asked me how work was going, I pushed the ring across the table.
—Oh, she said. We’re talking about that.
—I think so.
She nodded a second and then shrugged.
—Tinker proposed.
—That’s great, Eve. Congrats.
She made a startled face.
—Are you kidding? For Christ’s sake, Katey. I didn’t accept.
Then she brought me up-to-date. It was just like Generous had said: Tinker had taken her out on the