and telling him the good news. Then he thought better of it. He thought about calling Amanda and telling her . Thought better of that, too. What it boiled down to was that there was no one in the whole world to tell.
Awfully damned strange indeed.
Still, Carl headed for home with a bounce in his stride and fifty thousand dollars in his pocket. He stopped at Citibank and deposited the money into his savings account. Then he bought that bottle of Moët & Chandon at a liquor store on Broadway. He would just go ahead and drink it himself. That much he could do. Hell, yes.
Oddly enough, his feet kept climbing when he reached his apartment door. They took him one flight up, to Toni’s door. Well, why not? She was gorgeous. She was friendly. She was there. He was about to knock when the door flew open and she came running out, fumbling for her keys. She was frantic and out of breath and in a big hurry and she stared at him in surprise, evidently wondering what the hell he was doing standing outside her door. Suddenly he was wondering the exact same thing.
“Something?” she said finally.
“Kind of,” he said. “I was looking for someone to celebrate with. See, I wrote this novel and—”
“That’s fabulous. I’d love to hear all about it, but I have an audition for All My Children in fifteen minutes and I haven’t even seen the pages yet and they’re looking for a new vamp and it’s a great part and … oh, God, how do I look?”
She had her hair up, and she wore a tight black minidress with high heels. The effect was absolutely spectacular.
“You look like if they don’t hire you, they’re crazy.”
“You’re a bunny. Thanks! Bye! And congratulations!” Then she went dashing down the stairs as fast as her teetering heels would take her.
Carl sighed and stood for just a moment in the silent hallway, feeling the tiniest bit foolish. The he shrugged, wondered if being a bunny was a good thing or a bad thing, and went back down to his place, unlocked his door.
He felt it before he saw it. As he stepped inside, he whirled to his left.
There was a guy sitting on his bed. He was puffing on a long, slim cigar.
“You brought champagne, Carl. How thoughtful. Listen, I couldn’t find an ashtray. Where do you hide them?”
Carl swallowed, frightened. The man was calm, smiling in a relaxed manner. But there was something about him that made the hair on the back of Carl’s neck stand on end. “I don’t smoke,” he said. The man grunted, dissatisfied. Carl suddenly wished he had something in his possession a little more substantial than a miniature Swiss Army knife in his pocket, which he’d carried since high school. It had just a two-inch-long blade and a nail file. He gripped the neck of the champagne bottle, wondering what kind of weapon it would make. “What do you want?”
“I want you to close the door,” the intruder said. He didn’t move from the bed. Carl realized the apartment was dark and shadowy. Whoever this guy was, he’d drawn the curtains.
“Look, I don’t have any money on me, and—”
“Close it, Carl.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even sound impatient. No need. He was in total control.
Carl closed the door and stood there.
“Good man. Now I want you to go over to the desk, turn on the light, and sit down facing me.”
Carl did as he was told and sat in his swivel chair. The man now stood. He was bigger than Carl, 6’3” or 6’4”, and powerfully built. His hands were monster-sized. His movements were precise and compact, elegant, like a dancer’s. He was maybe thirty-five, with a flat-top crew cut, a neatly trimmed mustache, and heavy black-framed glasses. He was an elegant dresser, to the point of foppish. He wore a fawn-colored silk suit, houndstooth, a linen vest, a lavender broadcloth shirt, and a yellow polka-dot bow tie. He went over and locked the door, paused to tap his cigar ash into the kitchen sink.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Carl
Awfully damned strange indeed.
Still, Carl headed for home with a bounce in his stride and fifty thousand dollars in his pocket. He stopped at Citibank and deposited the money into his savings account. Then he bought that bottle of Moët & Chandon at a liquor store on Broadway. He would just go ahead and drink it himself. That much he could do. Hell, yes.
Oddly enough, his feet kept climbing when he reached his apartment door. They took him one flight up, to Toni’s door. Well, why not? She was gorgeous. She was friendly. She was there. He was about to knock when the door flew open and she came running out, fumbling for her keys. She was frantic and out of breath and in a big hurry and she stared at him in surprise, evidently wondering what the hell he was doing standing outside her door. Suddenly he was wondering the exact same thing.
“Something?” she said finally.
“Kind of,” he said. “I was looking for someone to celebrate with. See, I wrote this novel and—”
“That’s fabulous. I’d love to hear all about it, but I have an audition for All My Children in fifteen minutes and I haven’t even seen the pages yet and they’re looking for a new vamp and it’s a great part and … oh, God, how do I look?”
She had her hair up, and she wore a tight black minidress with high heels. The effect was absolutely spectacular.
“You look like if they don’t hire you, they’re crazy.”
“You’re a bunny. Thanks! Bye! And congratulations!” Then she went dashing down the stairs as fast as her teetering heels would take her.
Carl sighed and stood for just a moment in the silent hallway, feeling the tiniest bit foolish. The he shrugged, wondered if being a bunny was a good thing or a bad thing, and went back down to his place, unlocked his door.
He felt it before he saw it. As he stepped inside, he whirled to his left.
There was a guy sitting on his bed. He was puffing on a long, slim cigar.
“You brought champagne, Carl. How thoughtful. Listen, I couldn’t find an ashtray. Where do you hide them?”
Carl swallowed, frightened. The man was calm, smiling in a relaxed manner. But there was something about him that made the hair on the back of Carl’s neck stand on end. “I don’t smoke,” he said. The man grunted, dissatisfied. Carl suddenly wished he had something in his possession a little more substantial than a miniature Swiss Army knife in his pocket, which he’d carried since high school. It had just a two-inch-long blade and a nail file. He gripped the neck of the champagne bottle, wondering what kind of weapon it would make. “What do you want?”
“I want you to close the door,” the intruder said. He didn’t move from the bed. Carl realized the apartment was dark and shadowy. Whoever this guy was, he’d drawn the curtains.
“Look, I don’t have any money on me, and—”
“Close it, Carl.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even sound impatient. No need. He was in total control.
Carl closed the door and stood there.
“Good man. Now I want you to go over to the desk, turn on the light, and sit down facing me.”
Carl did as he was told and sat in his swivel chair. The man now stood. He was bigger than Carl, 6’3” or 6’4”, and powerfully built. His hands were monster-sized. His movements were precise and compact, elegant, like a dancer’s. He was maybe thirty-five, with a flat-top crew cut, a neatly trimmed mustache, and heavy black-framed glasses. He was an elegant dresser, to the point of foppish. He wore a fawn-colored silk suit, houndstooth, a linen vest, a lavender broadcloth shirt, and a yellow polka-dot bow tie. He went over and locked the door, paused to tap his cigar ash into the kitchen sink.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Carl
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